Stockholm Syndrome
by PlonkerOnDaLoose
Summary: "She called him her friend, because there was nothing else; it wasn't Stockholm Syndrome" - angsty CB set after 1.13, chuck and blair are kidnapped
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER: **I OWN GOSSIP GIRL BIATCHES ... lol jk, I'm Irish. Kudos to Josh and Cecily for creating such mouthwatering characters, etc

**BETA:** I'd like to thank _**Tatiana**_, without whom, as cheesey as this sounds, this story WOULD NOT EXIST. NOW BOW AND WORSHIP HER ... tehehehe

* * *

**STOCKHOLM SYNDROME **

**Chapter One**

**...**

_An ending fitting for the start  
You twist and tore our love apart  
I know you lie, I know you lie  
But I'm still in love with you  
And, oh, you can't stand me now  
_'Can't Stand Me Now' – The Libertines

**...**

"Dan!" A frantic-looking Serena waved him over, cell glued to her ear. "Dan. Have you seen Blair? She's not answering my calls."

"Can't say I have, no. Not since we arrived together."

"Really? Nowhere?"

Dan scratched his nose. "Nope."

Serena bit her lip, obviously upset. With trembling hands she redialled Blair's number. Dan touched her arm in a comforting way. "What's up? I'm sure she's around somewhere. It's Blair. She wouldn't miss an opportunity to be a bitch in front of the _New York Post_."

Serena was so preoccupied she didn't snap back. "She said she'd meet me here. We're sitting together."

"Don't remind me," Dan muttered. "She probably forgot. Went in already. C'mon, let's g– "

"She can't have. I have the tickets." Serena fumbled in her clutch, producing two tickets. "Dan, we have to find her."

"No, we have to go in before the doors close."

"Dan. Please," Serena whispered.

Dan hesitated – but not for long. Serena had that effect on people. "Yeah, okay. You want to look for her, yeah, let's go. I, uh, I never really liked Opera. Not my thing. Too much singing. Very operatic."

"Thank you." Serena squeezed his hand. "I think we should check the restrooms first, then – Nate!" She ran towards the approaching figure, dragging Dan with her. "Nate, Nate. Have you seen Blair? Is she with you?"

Nate grimaced. "No." His tone was decidedly icy, the Gossip Girl blast still fresh in his mind. "Why? Can't find her?"

Serena shook her head hopelessly. "She was supposed to meet me here."

"Yeah, well, Blair does a lot of things she not supposed to."

"Nate!" she scolded. Dan winked at Nate behind her back. "Do you have any idea where she might be?"

Nate ran a hand through his hair. "Honestly, Serena, I'm not that concerned with Blair's whereabouts right now. Sorry." His tone was less than apologetic.

"Please, Nate. Help me look," Serena pleaded. "You always complain about Opera. Please. I know Blair hurt you, but I'm worried about her and she's my friend and you're my friend ... That's got to mean something, right? Please Nate."

Nate swore. "Fine," he conceded grudgingly. "But I'm doing for you, okay. Not Blair."

Dan fidgeted but Serena nodded, beaming at her two boys. "Okay. Thanks. Okay. Let's, um, split up and look. I'll check the ladies and you guys can do the bar an– "

"Ah. Nathaniel. Serena." All three turned to see Bart Bass striding towards them, Lily beside him, resplendent in a grey silk Versace. "Have you seen Charles? I can't say I expected punctuality, but this is cutting it. Doors close in two minutes."

Nate's face obviously darkened. "That explains it," he muttered, only loud enough for Dan to hear. Dan sent him a sympathetic look, though didn't exactly agree with his conclusion. From what he had observed since the scandal had broke, Blair and Chuck could hardly stand to be in the same area code as each other, let alone meet up for a quickie in the janitors' closet at the Met, but he kept his mouth shut.

Serena shook her head. "No, sorry, Bart, I haven't. Have either of you seen Blair?"

"No." Bart's eyes were as dark as Nate's. "We're going inside. If you see my son tell him ..." he trailed off and shook his head. Apparently there were no words left.

Bart composed himself, flashing Serena and Nate a white smile. "Enjoy the Opera, kids."

Nate started after them. "I'm going in. You should come too. It's obvious where Blair is, and I'm pretty sure she won't appreciate the interruption."

"Nate!"

Nate just shrugged.

Near desperation, Serena appealed to her boyfriend. "I know Blair, Dan. And I know she wouldn't go off with Chuck. And I know Chuck. He doesn't care about Opera but he cares about Bart – or his approval. He wouldn't miss this. Dan ... I'm worried."

Dan shrugged off his jacket and slung it around her shoulders. "C'mon. Let's go look."

Serena lent in and kissed him coyly, tucking a stray strand of blonde hair behind her ear. "I love you." Holding Dan's hand with her right and the skirts of her gown with the left, she hurried down the staircase, Dan at her heels. They reached the lobby when a voice shouted after them.

"I hate Opera," Nate said shortly when he joined them. "Like, really hate Opera."

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

Blair Waldorf woke with a splitting headache. Think straightening irons clamped to your frontal lobes; unshakeable, tear-inducing, stomach-churning pain. She made to groan, try release some of the pressure by opening her mouth, but it was full of cotton wool, dry and crusty, the sour rawness of bile lingering close. Her whole body was lead. She lay still, incapable of speech or movement, just lay there on the cheap polyester carpet, concentrating on breathing.

Polyester? Like, WTF?

No one Blair knew had a polyester carpet, not even Cabbage Patch. She bullied her brain past the pain but the previous night was a blur. The last thing she remembered was getting ready with Serena, critically examining herself in the mirror while Serena haphazardly applied lipgloss. The Valentino was stunning, but was she stunning in it? Then they hailed a taxi to the Met, arriving early so they could have drinks at the bar before the Opera, just like old days. Nate walked right past without acknowledging her and she downed her Bellini in one, and ordered a Rum and Coke, easy on the Coke.

If this was a hangover, it was like no other she had ever experienced; not even the aftermath of the Sheppard wedding compared. Chuck Bass had talked her into trying each of the fourteen different flavours of absinthe the bar stocked; she only remember the first four – liquorice, cherry, alcohol and vomit.

Blair's stomach gave an ominous lurch. Whether it was the pain in her head, or the mere thought of Chuck Bass, she didn't know. She whimpered hoarsely, opening her eyes. The pain doubled and tripled at the harsh white light and she threw her hands up over her face, curling up into the foetal position and waiting for the onslaught to subside.

Breathing heavily, she regained control over her body. Blair Waldorf was Swahili for control.

Her eyes clamped shut, she ranked her fingers through her hair, pressing hard against her head. Her temple was tender to the touch and she felt something cold and slithery beneath her fingers. Something silk, wrapped tight about her head. Blair couldn't recall wearing a headband. Tentatively, with soft, sluggish fingers, she exploded her head. Her hair was sticky, matted, disgusting. She rubbed a clump, trying to separate the strands. How had this happened? Was it vomit? Opening her eye a crack, she glanced down. The already filthy carpet was freckled with rust. Blair continued picking at her hair, watching through a fog as tiny specks of reddish-brown wafted down. With trembling fingers, she pulled at the silk wrapping around her head, working it free.

Chuck's scarf was stained the same heavy red.

It took a long time for Blair to recognise it as blood.

When she did, she rocketed upwards. The sudden change in equilibrium was too much for her delicate system and, with a cry, she retched repeatedly, yielding nothing more than spittle and a thick, yellowish liquid that burned her throat like drain cleaner. She had never felt so empty.

Collapsing on the floor, Blair stared around her. She was in a strange room, with dirty windows and barely any furniture, lit only by a naked bulb hanging from the low ceiling. She would have complained, had she the strength. Slowly, her eyes drifted from the pile of blankets dumped by the door, to an empty bottle of mineral water lying in the pool of mullioned sunlight. It was Volvic.

Blair's lip curled.

Cradling her aching head in her hands, she looked further into the tiny room, squinting through the shadows. A pair of shoes stuck out into the light. Black leather, Italian, exquisite tailoring obvious even to one in Blair's condition. She knew only one person to possess such a pair of shoes. If Chuck Bass' scarf was here, and if Chuck Bass' shoes were here, then ...

"Chuck." Her voice grated against her throat like sandpaper. "Chuck. Chuck! Oh, god, Chuck, Chuck where are we? ... Chuck."

Waldorf's don't crawl, especially not to Basses, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

"Chuck ..."

Chuck sat up against the wall, his elbows propped on his knees, head down.

"Chuck," Blair whispered. "Where are we?"

Chuck raised his head. His lip was split and his eye swelled shut. Blood splattered the front of his ivory dinner jacket. Slowly, he raised an eyebrow.

"Chuck, we have to get out of here. These people, they drink Volvic."

Chuck let out a low, hollow laugh, a dark chuckle, the laugh of someone in the know, someone who's already heard the punchline. Blair wanted to slap him. "What's so funny, Bass? We've got to get out of here. Like, ASAP."

But Chuck just laughed. Blair spared him a withering glance and pushed her to her feet, staggering to the door, one shoe missing. She grasped the handle, not pausing to clean it off, and pulled hard.

It was locked.

She jimmied it expectantly, wrenching it with all of her limited strength, even kicking it, yet the door held firm. She scuffed the toe of her new Louboutin but this meant nothing to her. Numb and logical, she crossed to the window. But it wouldn't open. It was nailed shut.

Blair revolved slowly on the spot. Chuck had stopped laughing.

"Chuck," she whispered. "Chuck, we've got to get out of this room."

"And how do you propose we do that, Waldorf?"The use of her surname stung. "The door is locked. The window is locked. This isn't a Bruce Willis movie, so there is no conveniently located ventilation system. There is no way out of this room."

Blair stared at him. He looked like a different person.

"So we'll break the window. It's not too much of a drop. We'll be fine."

Chuck almost smiled. "There is no _we_."

"Look, Bass, I know you're pissed that I choose Nate over you, but PMS much? I'm sorry. I am. I'm sorry I used you, sorry I broke your trust, sorry for whatever else you've got me down as doing in your sick twisted little Chuck Bass mind, but wake up and smell the coffee! You're not exactly a choirboy yourself. You got your revenge. You ruined my life. Nate's not talking to me and the whole school thinks I'm a trashy whore – even Serena looks down on me! But right now, there are more important things than your petty vendetta. In case you haven't noticed, we're trapped in a room, God knows where. We've been beaten, probably drugged. And my Louboutin is missing. I'm trying to help us out here so would you please stop acting like a four-year-old? If it's not too inconvenient, or anything. God forbid the great Chuck Bass do anything he doesn't want to, but I want to go home. I want a shower and fresh strawberries, and I want to watch _Gone With the Wind_ without anyone telling me it's old and stupid. I want my boyfriend back. And I want to get out of this ROOM!"

Only when it was over, did Blair realise she had been yelling. Her chest was heaving and her hands shook. Her cheeks were probably red and blotchy. Instinctively she turned away so Chuck wouldn't see her at her most unattractive.

"Blair." He called to her. Something was rattling, metal on metal.

Blair folded her arms, refusing to look at him. "What?"

"Blair."

"WHAT!" she screamed, so loud her vocal chords almost snapped with the strain. Then, a whisper of a whisper, "What do you want Bass? You've already taken everything."

There was a soft thump and Blair looked down to see Chuck's shoe bounce by her foot. "Use it to smash the window," he said stiffly. "Get out of here, Blair."

She kicked the shoe back to him, arms resolutely folded. "Break it yourself."

Chuck paused, and then, "I can't."

Blair started. She had never heard those two words emerge from his mouth before, never. Chuck Bass did not say _I can't _– he said, shamelessly, _I don't want to_.

Frowning, she turned to him. "You can't?"

"I can't."

"You ... _can't_?"

"That's right. I can't."

He raised his hand. Something metal jingled.

Chuck's wrist was handcuffed to the radiator. His fingers were swollen and purple.

Blair swallowed. "We're in a lot of trouble. Aren't we Bass?" She picked up his shoe, sat down beside him, leant against his shoulder. Chuck gave a hard shrug and she slipped sideways. He moved away, as far as the cuff would let him, and showed her his back. Blair curled on the floor, some tiny wounded animal. She did not have the energy to cry. The radiator was on but she felt so very cold, the kind of cold that comes only from being all alone.

When she woke up, Chuck was gone, but in the absence of shoe, her left foot was swathed in a pair of paisley socks, and a stained dinner jacket was tucked tight around her, keeping her warm.


	2. Chapter 2

**DISCLAIMER: **I OWN GOSSIP GIRL BIATCHES ... lol jk, I'm Irish. Kudos to Josh and Cecily for creating such mouthwatering characters, etc

**BETA:** I'd like to thank _**Tatiana**_, without whom, as cheesey as this sounds, this story WOULD NOT EXIST. NOW BOW AND WORSHIP HER ... tehehehe

**REVIEWS: **REVIEWERS, I LOVE YOU! You were all so kind, so generous, with your feedback, and I really, truly, appreciate it. Thank you

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**

* * *

STOCKHOLM SYNDROME**

**Chapter Two**

**...**

_Bang bang, he shot me down  
Bang bang, I hit the ground  
Bang bang, that awful sound  
Bang bang, my baby shot me down  
_'Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down)' – Nancy Sinatra

**...**

He watched her sleep through a haze of pain and dying light. There was nothing else to do. His wrist was raw and bloody from fighting the restraint, his nails cracked. His head pounded dully but he ignored it with ease, a veteran of the morning after. The ends of his fingers hung heavy with the last traces of a sedative. Had he drunk it, or had it been injected? He couldn't remember. He couldn't remember anything, least of all how he had ended up here, in this filthy little room, shackled to a radiator, with Blair Waldorf asleep at his feet.

Not that he was complaining about the latter. It almost made the rest worthwhile. Almost. Kinky Chuck could do, but this was excessive. His jacket was ruined and nothing, except maybe Blair, merited the mutilation of clothing.

Blair.

Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, he had to be locked in this one.

Blair...

Her hair fell across her face, fluttering with every breath. Chuck was no stranger to pain, of any kind, but the caught feeling in his chest when he watched her made it hard to breathe. Like his chest had suddenly become too small ... or something inside, too big. Either way, it was her fault. Everything was her fault. He wouldn't be here, trapped like this, stripped of his dignity, if it wasn't for her. He remembered now. Opera with his father and the VDWs, some inane little family bonding session – only he had never made it to the Opera. He had met Nate in the foyer, and Nate had burned him like no one's business. Twelve years of friendship, spiralling down the drain like yesterday's coffee. Then, in the bar ... and Blair. They must have gone off together, only he couldn't remember where, or why.

She was missing a shoe. Her toes were tiny and pink and perfect, with fire-engine red nails. For some reason, this made Chuck laugh. Here was his Blair, all hidden away from the world. Here was proof that the girl he loved existed at all.

_Had _loved, he corrected himself. _Had _loved.

Her toes, bare beneath thin hose, were slowly turning blue.

With drunk fingers, Chuck pulled off his shoes and socks. He took up her foot. It fit right into his palm, like a glove, like it belonged, snug. It made his hand feel useful. Gentle, gently, so as not to wake her, he slipped his socks, both of them, onto her foot, and then replaced his shoes. He held her foot for a while, though. It seemed like the right thing to do.

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

Nate couldn't sleep. The clock on the bedside locker flashed 3:57. He was sleeping in the Van der Woodsen's room in the Palace, Chuck's room to be specific. He kept wondering if they had had sex in this bed, all hot and close and whispering, whispering about him. The sheets burned like poison ivy. Outside, he could hear the adults murmuring still. They were arguing over whether Eleanor should be informed. Lily wanted to tell her but Bart disagreed, saying it was unnecessary; Chuck and Blair were bound to come stumbling through the door at any moment. Bart even had a man stationed in Chuck's suite, in case they went there instead; more an accommodation for Lily than personal concern.

"Eleanor has the right to know her daughter's been missing– "

"Unaccountable for," Bart interjected. "Let's not be dramatic."

"Either way, Bart, she was due to attend the Opera with us tonight and no one has seen hide nor hair of her since seven o'clock," Lily said with that slow, diplomatic grace of hers.

"Serena stays out late all the time." It wasn't an accusation, just a statement.

"Serena is not Blair."

"Yes, but Blair is a teenage girl nonetheless."

"And you're an expert on the subject?"

"Girls, maybe not," Bart conceded, "but I have a son, and, believe it or not Lily, I was teenage boy once. This is not unusual behaviour."

Nate found it hard to picture Big Bart Bass as a kid.

"On another night, I would agree with you," Lily replied. "But Blair was looking forward to the Opera, she told me herself this morning."

"Charles hates Opera."

Wrong. You just lost $64,000 sucker.

Last summer, when in Italy, they had gone to see Madame Butterfly in the Coliseum. In the limo Nate rolled a joint in preparation for three acts of torture but, before he could take a drag, Chuck had ripped it from his mouth and doused it in the dredges of his champagne. "This, Nathaniel, my friend, is class," he had said. "If you don't have any, at least try and pretend."

With tact, Lily said, "Blair hates Charles. Or at least Serena tells me they've had a falling out."

Bart gave a dry chuckle. "Don't worry, Lily dear, no offence taken. And don't worry about the children. They'll come home as soon as they've get bored. Or run out of cash. Now, a nightcap?"

Nate agreed with Bart. Chuck and Blair weren't worth worrying about. They were probably off fucking somewhere, completely oblivious to the effect of their selfish actions on others. As usual. He rolled over, pulling his pillow around his head to block out the noise.

Fuck them, he thought viciously. _Fuck them_. He didn't need them, either of them. They could go elope and move to Montana and wear matching bowties and headbands and spawn little two-timing, back-stabbing, double-crossing monsters (with matching bowties and headbands) for all he cared. Fuck them.

Nate fumed in the dark, but it didn't make him feel better. He wondered if Serena could sleep.

There was a knock on the door. "Nate?"

He sat up, the pillow falling away.

"Yeah?"

"It's me." Ever graceful, Serena slipped around the door. She perched on the edge of the bed, a bundle of nerves. Nate could feel the tension radiating from her. For a long time she said nothing.

"Serena?"

"Blair hasn't answered any of my calls. I've left her thirty-eight messages. There isn't room for any more."

Nate shrugged. Squirmed. "I'll bet she doesn't want to be disturbed," he said snidely.

"You think she's with Chuck?" Serena asked, shifting on the bed to look him in the eye.

"I don't think. I _know_."

Serena said nothing.

"Well, come on Serena. Who else would she be with?"

"I don't know, Nate." She bit her lip, clearly torn. "It just doesn't feel right. Blair _always _answers her cell."

"Ever considered that she might not want to talk to you?" Again, Serena said nothing. Nate heaved a sigh and ran a hand through his hair. "What do you want me to do S?"

"Will you call her?" she asked, shy. "Please. I know she'll pick up if it's you. She – she still loves you Nate." She reached out, touching his shoulder. Nate knew he should pull away, but he didn't. He couldn't. Instead he pulled her close and Serena leaned her head against her chest. Nate stroked her hair. It glowed a pale gold in the moonlight leaking in through the gap in the curtains.

It wasn't as soft as Blair's. It didn't smell like Blair's. It wasn't Blair's.

Serena made a little sound. "I miss her Nate. I know it sounds stupid, and that I'm being stupid, but I can't help it. I do. I miss her."

"So do I," said Nate, but too quiet for anyone to hear. "I miss them both."

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

Blair eased her arms through the sleeves of Chuck's jacket. She wasn't cold; the radiator was on and there was a pile of blankets, but wearing his jacket made her feel just that little bit safer in this strange, strange room. Chuck was gone but the empty bottle of Volvic had been replaced with a full one. Withdrawing her hand inside the long sleeve, Blair gingerly opened the bottle, wiping clean the rim before taking a long drink. Her stomach groaned as the liquid hit it, begging for food. Still thirsty, she recapped the bottle; one of her rules was never to finish anything. Blair set the bottle down and tried the door again.

Locked.

But Chuck was gone.

"Chuck!"

She yelled his name like it was the dirtiest word she knew.

"CHUCK!"

Blair rattled on the doorknob.

"Chuck! This isn't funny! Chuck!"

She kicked the door.

"Chuck! Let me out! Let me out!"

The door didn't budge.

"If this is some sick joke of yours Bass, it's not funny, okay! Let me out, or so help me God, I'll kill you myself. I'll strangle you with your own scarf you Basstard!"

Blair hammered on the door with her fists.

"CHUCK BASS!" she screeched and flung the bottle at the door. The cap came free and cheap water sprayed everywhere.

This was when Chuck would swagger in, scotch in hand, bowtie undone. He would lean against the doorpost and say, _I love it when you scream my name_. Blair wished she had another bottle to throw at him. Preferably something heavier. A large brick, maybe. If Nate was here, he could sucker-punch him. If Nate was here, he could save her, carry her from this nasty room like Rhett carried Scarlett.

But Nate wasn't here, and Chuck never came.

Blair was suddenly very aware that she was alone. She pulled Chuck's jacket tighter around her. If this was some joke of Chuck's, it wasn't funny. What if he never came back? What if some squatter broke in? What if Gossip Girl found out? Her already tattered reputation would not withstand another blast.

Then, without warning, the whole room began to shake. The light bulb jerked about like an epileptic ballerina, the rickety chair hopped on the threadbare carpet and the empty Volvic bottle popped up and down like popcorn kernels in a pan of hot oil. It began to snow. Blair stood, rooted to the spot, as flakes of plaster rained down on her. The radiator screamed and steam gushed upwards, condensing against the window. Great, dirty streaks ran down it, pooling on the sill and causing the paint to bubble and crack in time. There was thunder; a loud rumbling and metal clanking vibrated through the room, getting louder and louder. It was train, and it was close, very close.

Blair had only been on a train once, from Paris to Prague with Serena and Cece. She knew nothing about the subway, or the transnational trains departing the city from Penn Station – if she was in the city at all. She had no idea how long she had been unconscious. She could be anywhere. Upstate. Out of state. Out of the country.

She sat down before her legs gave way. The radiator was on but she shivered nonetheless. Outside the dirty window, the sun was setting. A great bloody glow seeped in through the encrusted panes.

The door opened.

Chuck stumbled in. He staggered and fell to his knees, head hanging. His hair was a mess.

Blair leapt to her feet.

"Game's over Bass. I want to go home. Now."

Chuck raised his head and blood dribbled down his chin. It dropped onto the floor, staining the carpet, drop by drop. Chuck Bass, marking his territory.

Blair laughed. "Don't think you can fool me with fake blood Bass. You've proved your point. Give me my cell. I'm calling a cab." She thrust out her palm. "My cell."

Chuck continued to stare at her. His lips were full and rosy.

"Did you hear me? I said, I want to go home." She squatted down so they were eye to eye. "Now."

Chuck spat at her feet. "You think this is a game, Waldorf? You think I'm behind this?"

Blair snorted. "And you expect to answer that?"

"As a matter of fact, I do."

"Well I refuse to answer your stupid questions. And I refuse to play your stupid game any longer." She stood up, smoothed down her dress. "You win, Bass. Is that what you want to hear? You win, okay? I give up. I give in. YOU WIN!" she screamed.

"Let me get this straight," Chuck hissed, wiping his mouth clean, sinking back on his haunches. The dying sun caught his face and a sneer twisted it into something feral. His teeth were red. "You think I set this all up? You think I paid some freak to drug us, beat us, bring us here, lock us up – let me correct that, lock _me _up – just for you? To do what, exactly? Make you fall in love with me? Maybe we'd have sex in this flea-infested shithole, is that what you thought? That I'd planned some elaborate daring rescue from the rapist tramp? That I'd take a picture and upload it to Gossip Girl? That I got my scarf bloody for _revenge_? Revenge on _you_? I know you're fat, Waldorf, but I didn't know you had a fat head as well."

Chuck Bass could be so cruel when he wanted to.

A single drop of ruby red blood escaped his lips.

Blair let the jacket fall off her shoulders. She slid down the wall, unable to stand. Her insides were missing. She had been beaten and she was bleeding blood that no could see from a gaping bullet hole that no one could fix. Her fingers shook as she peeled off his socks. She balled them up and they rolled away. "Take your damn socks." Her voice was so very small. Mascara bled down her face. "I don't want them. I don't want you."

Chuck put on the socks as the sky turned cold and black. He put back on his socks and put away his smoking gun. He didn't need to use it on himself. His blood was already all over the floor.

Blair said, "I hate you."

**DISCLAIMER: **I OWN GOSSIP GIRL BIATCHES ... lol jk, I'm Irish. Kudos to Josh and Cecily for creating such mouthwatering characters, etc

**BETA:** I'd like to thank _**Tatiana**_, without whom, as cheesey as this sounds, this story WOULD NOT EXIST. NOW BOW AND WORSHIP HER ... tehehehe


	3. Chapter 3

**DISCLAIMER: **I OWN GOSSIP GIRL BIATCHES ... lol jk, I'm Irish. Kudos to Josh and Cecily for creating such mouthwatering characters, etc

**BETA:** I'd like to thank _**Tatiana**_, without whom, as cheesey as this sounds, this story WOULD NOT EXIST. NOW BOW AND WORSHIP HER ... tehehehe

**REVIEWS: **again, people, feel the LUUUUURVE I am sending you! I am shocked and honoured to be receiving end of such a response. Thank you!

_Taylorr x333 _– _annablake _– _wow _– _LetMeIn1812 _– _anneryn7 _– _mary1415 _– _MiaTonili _– _:) _– _EatTheHypeUp _– _HnM skinnys _– _BassKingdom _– _Princess Persephone _– _flipped _– _NJBC Gal _– _flipped _– _ronan03 _– _kpGG!* _– _ilovecujo1993 _– _rose _– _majken _– 

**

* * *

STOCKHOLM SYNDROME**

**Chapter Three**

**...**

_I hate everything about you  
Why do I love you?  
_'I Hate Everything About You' – Three Days Grace

**...**

Blair stood by the window. Black night pressed up against the glass, masking the world in its velvet cloak. She leant her forehead against the cold pane. She could see nothing. No streetlamps, no passing cars, no people, like her, looking out over the world from lit windows. It was though someone had shut off the outside world. Yesterday, Blair rolled up her tinted windows and kept the world at bay. Today was different. She pressed her hand up against the glass and wished she could fall through the black mirror out into the world. Into yesterday.

But what was yesterday? She had no idea of the date, the time. She had no control and it made her feel so stranded.

The window was so black it worked as a mirror. Blair could see herself. And she could see Chuck.

Very slowly, very deliberately, she bent down and picked up his scarf. Mustering the last of her saliva, she spat on it. It squeaked as she began wiping the window. Blair dragged over the chair, clambering up to reach the highest panes. When she was finished cleaning, she let it fall. A white flag ruined with blood and dirt and hate.

"Whoops."

And she stood on it.

Outside the window, blackness pulsed, knocking on the glass, looking to get it.

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

It was her fault. If she hadn't spurned him for Nate, he would never have tipped off Gossip Girl; if he hadn't tipped off Gossip Girl, she wouldn't hate him; if she didn't hate him, he would have had no reason to talk to her that night; if he hadn't talked to her, pulled her away from Serena to somewhere more private, then he would have gone straight to meet his father; if he had been with his father, he would not be here, locked in this room. With her.

It was all her fault.

But then why did he feel so guilty?

She dropped his scarf and it fell like stone under the weight of the dirt, his dirt and her dirt, all comingled, printed on the silk like some ancient story. Once upon a time there was a prince and a princess. The princess was very beautiful but very cruel and she broke the poor prince's heart when she picked someone else even after they had hot sex in the back of the first prince's limo.

Many times.

That was bullshit. She didn't break his heart. So fucking what if she picked Nate. Now she had neither of them, and serves her right, greedy little bitch; she deserved everything coming to her.

But then why did hurting her ricochet back to him? Why did every precise cut in her tatty armour feel like he was tearing off his own skin? Why wouldn't the fucking butterflies just _die_ already?

Chuck wanted to scream out loud. To throw things, break things, break her, break her into a million little pieces and then piece her back together, piece by loving piece, so that when she opened her eyes all she could see was him.

He wanted to go pick it up, the scarf. He had wrapped it with soft fingers around her head when he first woke up and saw her, fallen and bleeding. She was an angel and he had been her knight in Armani armour. But she had been asleep.

He had wrapped her tight in his jacket and socks, he had been her prince. But she had been asleep.

He had wrapped his love around her, tight, and always. He had been there. But she hadn't been asleep. And, like the scarf, like the jacket and socks, she tore his love away and threw it on the ground and stamped on it until it was something dirty and worthless and broken.

She made him feel dirty and worthless and broken. But she made him feel so whole. Chuck didn't understand.

She was daring him to look.

"Whoops," Blair said, stamping on his scarf with fire-engine red toes.

Chuck sneered.

"Mind you don't break the chair there, Waldorf. It doesn't look like it can take much weight."

She tried to hide it but he saw her crack.

Chuck was very good at sneering.

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

The door opened and closed too quickly. Blair was only halfway across the room.

"Pity," Chuck said lightly. He hadn't moved from his corner, lounging on the chair, tipping it back on two-legs, staring up at the patchy ceiling, twiddling his thumbs, being Chuck. "Serena might have got there. Long legs, you know."

The door had opened for a reason. Three bottles of water and various snacks littered the floor, thrown in through the gap. Snickers and M&Ms and packets of cheesepuffs. Vending machine food.

Blair's stomach groaned but she stood still.

She was starving, but she would not move until Chuck did. She would not.

Blair toed a stray Oreo four-pack with distaste, nudging it back towards the main clutter. She turned on her heels and stalked to the other side of the room, the non-Chuck side. The non-food side. Every step was a decisive effort. God, she was ravenous. It was not triumphant hunger, there was no sense of achievement; she was not dizzied by her own success, merely through deprivation. Blair could not remember the taste of food. Her last meal had been an egg-white omelette with celery and cottage cheese, the evening before the Met. She hadn't eaten the day of the Opera. The dress was stunning, but was she stunning in it?

Serena was always stunning.

Blair felt her lip quiver. She forced down the lump in her throat. She could not, would not, cry in front of Chuck Bass.

Why was she crying?

Because she was scared, and hungry, and Chuck Bass was a meanie. She was trapped, imprisoned by the faceless food-thrower. She didn't where she was. She didn't know the time or the date. Was it long enough for someone to notice they were gone?

Blair doubted anyone would care. Serena had Dan. Nate hated her. Her mother ...

Blair bit her lip. It was dry. She wanted water and balm. She had Chapstick in her clutch. She had her cell in her clutch. But she had no clutch. She didn't even have two shoes.

Blair bit harder. The lump was growing. Chuck was humming tunelessly.

She wanted her clutch. She wanted her shoe. She wanted to go home. She wanted to feel her mother's embrace, feel at home and wanted within the silk arms and buried herself in the scent of damp roses. She wanted a cup of warm milk and honey and Dorota's white chocolate and raspberry cookies. She wanted Dorota, and her bed, and her father. She wanted Serena because everything worked out when Serena was around, and Serena made her feel loved, however inferior. She wanted Nate to love her like he once had. Like Chuck did.

Because he didn't anymore. She had seen to that.

Blair's whole body convulsed. Years of practice and discipline spared her the indignity of loud sobs but the tears still came, thick and blinding. She was crying so hard it hurt. It hurt deep inside.

She wanted Chuck to come put his arms around her. She wanted Chuck.

But she wanted Nate.

She wanted things to go back to how they were.

Blair screamed in anguish. The cry of something small and in pain.

She wanted to understand. She wanted Chuck to come and put his arms around her, but Chuck just looked up at the ceiling and twiddled his thumbs, humming tunelessly. Blair knew the song.

Rolling Stones – _You Can't Always Get What You Want_.

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

She cried like something inside was breaking. Chuck hummed louder. Let her suffer. Let her bleed. He had bled over her.

His hands were shaking. His thumbs kept catching in each other. His thumb-twiddling was not working. He had arthritis, Parkinsons, MS, Blairitis. Cancer of the heart.

It took every ounce of self-control he possessed not to sprint over there, not to pick her up and hold her tight, not to wipe away her tears and tell her over and over again, tell her how she made him feel shiny and new. He wanted to be her white knight.

But Chuck was no hero. He was the bad guy, and bad guys get the good clothes and all the good lines, but heroes get the girl; the good guy gets the girl.

Chuck was no hero. Heroes let the past go. Heroes took the high road. Heroes were selfless and kind and kissed the girl when she cried, even if she treated them like shit. Heroes were strong enough. Chuck could bench press one-eighty but his heart was a crippled dark thing.

When they were kids, they played games, all four of them. Serena was the warrior princess, the sorceress, the guardian goddess. Nate was the knight in shining armour. Blair was the damsel in distress. Chuck was the bad guy. Chuck was always the bad guy. Secretly, he had wanted to be the hero, but he said nothing.

Chuck was seventeen and he wanted to be the hero. But he did nothing. And the princess cried in the corner as the dragon ate her up from the inside out.

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

Blair cried herself out. By the time she had finished she expect to see her organs strewn about her, all pink and raw and private. She felt like there was nothing inside, just nothing, and that she was about to cave in on herself. Implode. The tears were still running, now without thoughts attached.

There was a soft thump as Chuck let his chair fall forward. There were footsteps. Blair did not look up. If he was coming to comfort her, it was too late.

Better late than never.

Blair closed her eyes. If he did come, if he sat down beside her, held her hand, offered her an M&M, she would take it. She would scoot close to him and cling to his hand like a drowning man.

Did that make her weak? Did it make her cheap? Did it make her human?

She let out a sigh and it rattled through her empty ribcage. She kept her head down and waited for Chuck.

There was a loud bang.

Blair's head snapped up automatically.

Chuck had popped a bag of cheesepuffs. A cloud of orange dust thickened the air and Blair coughed, a nasty wet sound. Chuck ate a cheesepuff. He selected a single puff and placed it in his mouth and chewed and swallowed. And then he did it again. Watching her watch him.

All Blair's organs came rushing back and suddenly there were far too many to fit into the cavity and they bulged and swelled and she couldn't walk because she was too gross and bloated. She clapped a hand over her mouth. The smell of processed cheese made her head ache.

Chuck finished the crisps and sucked the dust off his fingers. He crumpled up the packet and tossed it over his shoulder. It meant nothing to him.

Blair felt like that chip packet. Only he would never be able to throw her because she was too heavy. He would just stand up and leave her, crumpled and empty and used. Unwanted.

Chuck cheerfully opened the Oreo four-pack. He took the cookie, twisted it apart, licking out the cream. Watching her watch him.

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

Chuck was hungry and he was a man and hungry men eat food no matter who's watching, but Blair was Blair. She had to eat sometime. His plan was to goad her into it. Make it a competition. She was only person he knew to savour winning more than he did, and he was the person she most enjoyed beating. His plan was ingenious.

He finished the cheesepuffs and threw the packet away. Truly, this was devotion. Chuck hated cheesepuffs. He hated chips in general. Artificial flavouring, artificial colouring, artificial potatoes soaked in artificial oil. If cheap had a taste, it would be crisps, and Chuck Bass was not cheap.

He liked Oreos, though. Everyone liked Oreos, including Blair. Nate and Serena ate them with peanut butter, but he and Blair were traditionalists. Twist, lick, dunk.

Blair loved Oreos. Chuck had bought her stocks in Kraft Foods two Christmas' ago. He would have bought her Oreos but he knew she wouldn't eat them, or if she did they wouldn't stay down long. He knew this because he cared enough to put two and two together and not insist it made five. Nate bought her an Opal necklace, thinking it was her birthstone. But Blair's birthday was November 15th and opals signify October.

Chuck ate three and slipped the last one into his trouser pocket.

Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket, save it for a rainy day.

Outside it was still raining but there were no stars. Chuck unscrewed the cap of the water bottle, watching her watch him. She was a star but she had fallen through his fingers. She had fallen and shattered. But he had shattered first. She shattered him, threw him hard against the wall.

He ate the last Oreo in one bite. Tradition could go fuck his mother.

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

Blair couldn't take it anymore.

"Stop," she ordered. Chuck paused. Water dribbled down his chin, mixing with the dried blood and running rusty down his throat. "Stop. Stop eating." It wasn't the frenzied shriek of some glutton watching her stash dwindle, it was the tempered command of a woman in control. Blair was in control. "In case you haven't noticed Bass there are two of us, which means we divide the food in two. You take half and crawl back into your little hole, and I shall do the same."

"Gosh, Waldorf, that's an awful lot of food," he said. "You must be really hungry."

Blair flashed him her most perfect smile. "I never said I was going to eat it. My aim is merely to deprive you." She sat down beside the pile and began sorting.

One packet of peanut M&Ms for me. One packet of almond M&Ms for you. Blair hated peanuts and Chuck loved peanuts. Chuck hated almonds and Blair hated Chuck. The room was so full of hate it crackled like electricity. There were naked wires all over the floor. Everyone got burned.

Snickers for me, Snickers for you. Twix for me, Twix for you. Twinkie for me, Twinkie for you.

"And I get both bottles of water because you had two yesterday. Don't bother lying, Bass, I saw the empties." And like that she dismissed him, carrying her winnings back to her corner. Because she had won. And it felt good. It felt better than chocolate.

Blair arranged her food into a pyramid and took a long drink of water. She set the bottle down and admired her handiwork. Then she promptly destroyed it. The little pile of food by the door made everything more real. If someone was feeding them, then this wasn't a mistake, a joke. They hadn't gotten insanely drunk and, by accident, locked themselves inside.

But if they hadn't, who had?

Blair covered her food with one of the blankets. If she couldn't see it, it wasn't there. She lay down on the floor, turned away from Chuck, and closed her eyes. If she couldn't see him, he wasn't there.

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

Blair woke up in the middle of night. She wasn't sure if she was awake, or even alive, it was so dark. The blackness pressed down on her like water. And she was scared.

"Chuck?"

"Go to sleep."

"They're going to kill us, aren't they?"

There was a pause.

"Don't be stupid," Chuck said. Gently. "We're no use dead."

"Okay."

Blair rolled over and went back to sleep. Somehow, Chuck's words made sense.

She didn't remember their conversation in the morning.


	4. Chapter 4

**DISCLAIMER: **I OWN GOSSIP GIRL BIATCHES ... lol jk, I'm Irish. Kudos to Josh and Cecily for creating such mouthwatering characters, etc

**BETA:** I'd like to thank _**Tatiana**_, without whom, as cheesey as this sounds, this story WOULD NOT EXIST. NOW BOW AND WORSHIP HER ... tehehehe

**REVIEWS: **excuse my French, but I FUCKING LOVE YOU! All of you. Thanks, so much

_annablake _– _jo _– _anneryn7 _– _Diet Coke and Love Stories _– _Dreamgurl _– _LetMeIn1812 _– _LuLuLG _– _Cathybronte _– _EatTheHypeUp _– _blair riddle vulturi _–_ :) _– _rose _– _odyjha _– – _ilovecujo1993 _– _svenjen _– _Krazy4Spike _– _CharmingWords23 _– _BassKingdom _– _NJBC Gal _– _lulu _– _BassBillionaire _– _HnM _– _skinnys _– _itsolgatime _– _Chris2035 _– _ronan03_

**

* * *

STOCKHOLM SYNDROME**

**Chapter Four**

**...**

_Maybe there's a God above  
But all I ever learned from love  
Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew you  
And it's not a cry you can hear at night  
It's not somebody who's seen the light  
It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah  
_'Hallelujah' – Leonard Cohen

**...**

It had been three days, three days and counting. Harold had come running from France and Bart had passed him in the air on his way to Marseilles; his world did not stop because his fool of son decided to go on a bender without the awarding them the courtesy of a note. Chuck's cell was probably ringing in a pawn shop, traded in by a hooker to fund her next fix. Bart had faxed out photographs to all his hotels and contacts, but the buck stopped there. He had cancelled Chuck's credit cards, maintaining that the boy would come crawling back as soon as his money ran out.

Eleanor begged to differ.

Lily had given her two Valium and she slept soundly in the spare room at the Van der Woodsens' suite, while Harold sat slumped at the table, toying with a glass of Chianti. Serena reached over and touched his hand.

"I'm sure she's fine, Harold. It's Blair. She's sensible, way more than me. She wouldn't do anything stupid." She did not add the _I hope _and the metallic taste of guilt filled her mouth.

Blair was not Blair when she was with Chuck, not as Serena knew her.

"It's not Blair doing something stupid that I'm worried about," Harold confessed. "It's someone else doing something to her."

"Chuck will protect her," Serena said, and for some reason this didn't seem farfetched. "They're ... friends."

Harold gave an old laugh. "The Chuck Bass I know– "

"Is a different person when Blair's around," Serena finished quietly. Firmly. "He'll protect her. I know he will."

"But who will protect Chuck?"

"Chuck can take care of himself," Nate said. He folded his arms. "And other people's girlfriends."

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

Blair had never felt so disgusting. She tried washing her face by wetting a clean scrap of Chuck's scarf but it had been totally unsatisfying. She could feel the dirt eating away at her skin, feel it coating her like grit. Her dress was unrecognisable. Her teeth, to be sure, had sprouted fungi and her hair itched and reeked. Supposedly grease was beneficial, and Blair was an expert when it came to suffering for beauty, but this was extreme.

She glanced across the room.

It was all right for some. He was already so greasy an extra coat would make no difference. In fact, it might be advantageous; extra slick for the human Teflon. Now nothing would stick.

Blair forced herself to swallow.

She must have paced the tiny room a thousand times, but each round only made it smaller. She spent hours peering out the window but no one walked by. There were only empty buildings and ghost trains and snow. She was the penguin in the snow globe: trapped and helpless as her world was turned upside and shaken hard, but when the snow settled everything would not be all right again.

Questions banked up her mind as snow filled the windowsill.

Where was she? How long had she been here? Did people know? Did people care? Did Nate care? Did he think she'd run off with Chuck? Did he hate her? Was he looking for her? Was anybody looking for her? How long until someone found her? How long until she could have a shower? How long until she passed out from hunger? How long would it take for her to strangle Chuck in his sleep? How long would it take for Chuck to talk to her? Did Chuck know why they were here?

Why were they here?

It was nighttime and white had never been so black. Blair huddled beneath the blankets, her feet beneath her. Cold hung around the corners in an icy mist and she wished she had Chuck's socks. She wished she was at home in bed with a white chocolate skimmed-milk latte, watching _Breakfast at Tiffanys_ with her mother. Serena would call by and they'd paint their nails with the new samples from Chanel. Nate would call by and massage her cold feet. Chuck would call by and ...

Blair shook herself. Chuck would never call by again. Nate would never call by again. Her mother never watched _Breakfast at Tiffanys _with her. Serena would paint her nails alone.

"Chuck?" she asked. Rasped. "Why are we here?"

Chuck looked at her like she was an idiot. Chuck made her feel like an idiot.

He said, "Because I'm Chuck Bass."

She would have hit him, had it not required too much effort. He wasn't worth it.

"Contrary to what you might think, Bass, the world does not revolve around you. Why are we here?"

Chuck sigh a long-suffering sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Because," he said, with the air of a quantum physics professor explaining that two plus two equals four to an overemotional toddler. "I'm Chuck Bass."

Blair pulled the blanket up over her face.

"What if Nate and Serena are behind this? What if there's a camera and they won't let us out until we ... work things out?"

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."

"It's better than _I'm Chuck Bass_," Blair snapped.

"No, it's not. Do you really think that A) Nate and Serena would kidnap us, beat us up and lock us away in a freezing room and feed us cheesepuffs, just to encourage us to renew a friendship that we never actually had to begin with –" (Blair winced inside her blanket cocoon) " –or, B) that Nate and Serena have the cumulative cognitive capacity to come up with something like this? And doesn't Nate hate you?" Chuck added nastily. "I can't see him going to such lengths to further your happiness."

Blair sneered. "That's rich, Bass, because you're not exactly Friend of Week in Nateland."

"You just proved my point," Chuck drawled.

"Pleasure."

"It's all mine, I assure you."

"You disgust me."

"So does your face."

Blair almost laughed.

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

She almost smiled and it made his stomach somersault. In truth, his stomach was constantly turning. He knew why they were here, even if Blair had yet to piece it together. He thought she knew though, and was merely insulating herself from the truth by constructing obstacles, wild theories, bubble-wrapping herself in imagination fuelled by lack of food.

If she didn't eat in the next two hours, he resolved to feed her himself. He would tie her up if he had to. He didn't care.

But he did, and therein lay the problem.

_Odi et amo_. I hate and I love – Latin. Someone else's father would be proud.

Chuck pulled his jacket tighter around him and continued to wait. He had seen the movies. He knew what was about to happen. He didn't care, once they didn't hurt Blair. The only person in the world allowed to hurt her was him.

He wondered if his father was worried. He wondered if he had noticed his son's bed was empty. He wondered if Bart cared.

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

Blair pulled the blanket tighter around her. Chuck's face scared her. He looked to be steeling himself for something, a boxer preparing to go into the ring. A gladiator waiting to enter the arena.

They had watched _Gladiator _together when Nate had Flu and Serena was drunk with Georgie, and she had cried against his shoulder and stained his shirt with her mascara tears. Chuck hadn't cared. He had stroked her hair. She hadn't been crying for Russell Crowe, even though he was a babe. Blair had cried for Commodus, and for herself, because she could understand everything he did.

Except the incest. That was totally gross.

She wondered if her mother was worried. She wondered if she had noticed his daughter's bed was empty. She wondered if Eleanor cared.

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

Serena sat on Blair's bed, painting her toes fire-engine red. She had thought it trashy but it was Blair's secret favourite. Now she realised what an amazing colour it was. Her hand kept slipping. She could not concentrate. They always did each other's toes.

"Here." Dan took the brush from her and finished the last nail. He was no expert but his hand was steady and sure. That's why Serena loved him. He was her anchor, keeping her sure and steady. He kept her feet on the ground.

Blair said he weighed her down.

Dan capped the tiny bottle and set it on Blair's bedside locker. Serena moved over so he could sit down, careful of her toes. "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be at school?" She glanced at the clock. It was eleven-forty-five. "Not that I'm not, you know, glad that you're here. It means a lot."

"I came as soon as I heard. Your mom called my dad, something about Chuck and Blair being AWOL– "

"More like MIA," Serena murmured, blowing on her nails.

Dan's eyes widened. "So you have, like no idea where they might be? None at all? They just vanished? Poof." His hands made stars. "Poof."

"Poof." Serena's hands made stars. "Poof."

They held their fingertips together, star to star, heart to heart.

"I'm, I'm sorry," Dan stammered. "That's not cool. MIA. Wow."

Serena held on to his hand. "Nate thinks they're just off somewhere but I think they're in trouble. Blair hasn't called, not even from a payphone or anything. And her cell ... Listen to this." She scrabbled in her purse for her cell and, ringing Blair's number, held it up to Dan's ear.

"There's no dialtone," Dan said.

"I thought maybe it had died, but there's no voicemail. There's nothing."

Dan ran a hand through his curly hair. "Maybe she dropped it and it broke."

"She would have called me from a payphone or a hotel phone or something. A police station." Serena shook her head. She lowered her voice, as if whispering it made it better. "I don't think she _can_ call."

Dan swallowed. "Have you, eh, have you told Eleanor or Bart?"

"Eleanor's hysterical. We had to sedate her. And I don't want to worry Harold." Serena bit her lip. Dan took the cell and rang Blair, wanting to hear the static again. Proof.

"Have you told anyone?" he asked slowly.

Serena nodded. "I told my mom and Bart."

"And ..."

"Bart said not to worry."

"And you listened to him because?"

Serena sighed. "He's Chuck's dad, Dan. Chuck could've called him. I wouldn't know, he's in Marseilles."

"He hasn't." Nate stood in the doorway, precariously balancing three mugs. "Dorota made hot chocolate, extra marshmallows. Thought I heard your voice, man." He handed over Dan's mug with a grin. Or a grimace. "Chuck hasn't called Bart, but I still think you're just getting yourself worked up S," he said, talking too fast for Serena to interrupt. "So Blair dropped her phone and it broke? So Chuck hasn't called? Tell me this hasn't happened before."

Dan looked from Serena to Nate, and to his hot chocolate. He took a drink. It was good. The marshmallows were melting. To be honest, he didn't care that much about Blair, and he definitely wasn't missing Chuck, and, to be even more honest, he would have absolutely no complaints if neither came back. Ever. But Serena was obviously upset over the affair and, as a good boyfriend should be, he was there for her. Her problems were his problems. They had to be, lest Nate take his place. Dan knew they were old friends, something he couldn't compete with, and the unexplained disappearance of their two oldest playmates was sure to bring them together.

And they had history.

Dan took another drink. God, it was good.

Nate blew on his hot chocolate before drinking. Hot things burned his tongue, and, call him a girl, but Nate did not go for burnt tongues. They ruined the whole meal. And biting your tongue also sucked, or the inside of your cheek. Once, when he and Chuck went out for dinner with Bart, he bit the inside of his cheek three times in a row and had to excuse himself because his mouth was full of blood.

It was testament to their friendship that Chuck hadn't laughed when he followed Nate to the bathroom. "I kept biting my cheek, man," Nate had told him, a wad of toilet paper stuffed inside his mouth. "Fuck, and it _hurts_."

Chuck had said nothing. He disappeared, and returned a minute later with a glass full of ice and joint. They had left through the kitchen and met up with the girls. Serena had been wearing a blue dress with one sleeve. Nate couldn't remember what Blair wore.

"C'mon Nate," Serena said imploringly. "You really think they've just gone off partying? This is Blair we're talking about. She doesn't put on underwear without calling me first."

Dan snorted into his hot chocolate.

Serena and Nate ignored him. They were exchanging looks.

"We're also talking about Chuck," Nate countered. "And he's liable to do just about anything at any time – with anyone. We're not exactly tight right now so I'm not freaking out that he hasn't filled me in on his schedule. For all we know he has some crazy plan."

"He doesn't."

Eric walked in, tired and shaken. He and Chuck had bonded surprisingly well and Serena knew this vanishing act had hit her little brother hard. She patted the bed beside her and Eric joined them. Serena put her arm around his shoulder.

"He doesn't have plans, if that's what you're thinking," Eric told Nate. "He would have told me. I tried calling but I can't get a dialtone."

Dan drank more hot chocolate but it was now too sweet and he felt like puking.


	5. Chapter 5

_ Disclaimer: if I have to say this one more time I think I'm going to cry. Must you rub salt in the wound, Josh?!? Just no cool. Seth Cohen would NOT be impressed ... Blair might. _

_**A/N:** did people hear about Ed and Jessica?!? They BROKE UP?!? I screamed. Like, swear to God, in the middle of the street, SCREAMED. Old ladies were disturbed, boyfriend was upset, several eardrums burst_. It was a good day ... In other news, still seeking a BETA!

REVIEWS: _Arazadia __& __riclynshea & ggff-fan __& __BassBillionaire __& __3Words8letterssayit&I'myours __& __Maedy __& __Lalai __& __LuLuLG __& __majken __& __odyjha __& __rose __& __pandagirl1001 __& __KPgg!* __& __BassKingdom __& __Krazy4Spike __& __ilovecujo1993 __& __svenjen __& __ronan03 __& __Cathybronte __& __HnM skinnys __& __Ingridmarie __& __Chris2035_ – I love you peeps so much it's kinda creepy. I mean, someone wrote this review and it was so beautiful I cried. And like full out CRIED; swear to God, have not had waterworks like those since I found Wentworth Miller was gay. Ooooh, that was a black day, I can tell you. A black day, my son ... But now we have Chuck Bass, so all is freezer beans

**

* * *

STOCKHOLM SYNDROME**

**  
Chapter Five**

_  
Disarm you with a smile  
And cut you like you want me to  
Cut that little child  
Inside of me and such a part of you  
Disarm you with a smile  
And leave you like they left me here  
To wither in denial  
The bitterness of one who's left alone  
Oh, the year's burn  
The killer in me is a killer in you  
I send this smile over to you  
My love  
_'Disarm' – Smashing Pumpkins

xoxo

It started out as a game. She only wanted to win. It turned into something else.

Blair watched his reflection in window. "What are you waiting for?"

"What?" His head snapped up and then dropped, slowly. He was so tense. A weaker man would have paced, whistled, gnawed on the furniture, but Chuck just sat there, very still, breathing.

"You're waiting for something. What?"

"I'm not," he replied tersely.

"Yes, you are," she insisted, working to keep her tone neutral. She prized her ability to read people; she also prized her gift for torture through the slow extraction of things soft and personal, like organs and secrets. She said smugly, "I can tell. I can always tell with you Bass, you're like an open book."

That was a lie, but what Chuck didn't know could only hurt him further.

"You're losing your touch."

"You're scared ... It's okay," she whispered. "So am I."

They were locked in room, having been beaten and drugged, and fed every few hours like animals in the zoo. If he wasn't scared, she might be even more frightened.

Chuck's lip curled. "I'm not scared."

"Stop lying Bass," Blair said loudly, throwing her head back in exasperation. "I'm sick of it."

"Then stop asking stupid questions," he snapped.

His gaze melted a hole in the wall. He ground his teeth. His hands were claws. He could almost hear voices through the partition. They would come soon. They would come for him.

"What are you waiting for?" Blair coaxed gently, prying and poking like a neurosurgeon. First, find the nerve. Second, find the scalpel. "You can tell me. I won't laugh."

Chuck snorted. "You to shut up and leave me alone."

"You know I won't do that until you tell me," she said flatly.

Chuck banged his head back against the wall. It hurt but it felt good. It woke him up. He did it again. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Blair pretending not to watch him. She was picking at the corner of the blankets, her head down, but her eyes were fixed on the window. He saw concern flash momentarily across her face as his head collided with the wall.

She hated him, but worried about his brain cells? Could she not just do one or the other? He would prefer she love him, but if hate was the only alternative to this lingering, this halfway house of heartache and healing, than gladly, he would take it. Chuck Bass could hate. He was very good at it. He could pick her apart, piece by loving piece, he could kill her.

But it would kill him.

He could hate, and hating her was so very easy. She had so many weaknesses, all begging for their turn on the operating table. On the rack. But she knew his weakness. She knew exactly how to hurt him. She knew where to twist the knife.

"Christ, I need a drink."

She threw a half-full bottle of Volvic across the room.

He threw it back.

"I can't drink this," he scoffed.

Blair understood. "I know," she said in sympathy, pulling a face, forgetting that her goal was annihilation and not amicability. "Volvic."

"No. Contaminated."

"Grow up," she said witheringly.

Chuck glowered back. "Eat something."

"Die in a corner."

"If it means an end to your yakking, then gladly."

Blair's frustration was beginning to leak out her pores, some noxious gas forcing its way free before it exploded. She could feel herself boiling over.

Nate never fired her up. Nate never made her wanted to scream and throw things and pull at her hair. Nate kept her calm. Nate kept her grounded. Nate never let her fly.

Blair shook herself. That was stupid talk. Nate was the one.

"You're such an asshole, you know that?"

Chuck grinned his shit-eating grin. It made Blair want to smack him. It made her want to fuck him. "Then why are you talking to me?"

"Because there's no one else! Don't you get it?" she yelled at the ceiling. She flailed about her, flinging the empty bottle at the window. It bounced off and crackled, dented. "We're stuck here!"

"You're not," Chuck muttered.

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Blair demanded.

"I'm Chuck Bass."

"I think we've established that."

Chuck exhaled through his teeth. "And yet you fail to grasp its significance. I always thought you were one of the sharper tools, but, evidently, I was mistaken."

"Are you calling me stupid?"

He raised his head, and said, pokerfaced, "Yes."

His eyes twinkled in the twilight and she wanted to cry.

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

"Is it just me or can you smell Chinese?"

"Do you ever stop thinking about food?"

"I'm a guy."

"I'll take that as no," Jenny grinned, dumping the plastic bag of takeout on the kitchen counter. Dan pushed his laptop aside and ripped open the bag.

"FOOD!"

"Calm down, Dan," Jenny laughed, grabbing chopsticks from the drawer. The takeout place gave out utensils with the meals but they were cut-price and wooden and splintered very easily; Jenny preferred the set Santa gave her a few years back. They were orange and purple with JENNY written in Chinese down the side. A little tacky, yes, but she had no problem with tackiness once it remained within the confines of her home.

"How was choir practice?" Dan asked through a mouthful of Sweet & Sour.

Jenny shrugged. "Didn't get much singing done, to be honest. Everyone was asking me about Blair and then they got all pissy with me because I knew as much as they did. Which was, like, nothing." She paused, rice halfway to her mouth. "How much do you know, Dan?"

Dan chose to eat.

"Dan? I know you skipped school today to be with Serena. She must be freaking out. She's Blair's best friend."

Dan swallowed. He would be careful for Serena's sake. But Jenny _was _his sister. And Blair had been a bitch to her. Though, in fairness, Blair was a bitch to just about everyone. Including Serena.

"What are people saying?" he asked carefully, avoiding Jenny's eye.

"Anything. Most of the rumours have her and Chuck running off together. They've been sent to boarding school after Eleanor walked in on them, you know, doing it; she's pregnant; they've eloped in Vegas; they've gone to start a leper colony in the Amazonian Basin; they've joined the circus; they've joined the Jehovah's Witnesses, Mormons or Scientology, depending on the time of day. And my personal favourite: they've moved to Montana to become farmers– "

Dan snorted into his Sweet & Sour.

"Eww. Dan. Gross."

"Sorry," he laughed, mopping up the mess with a napkin. "But it was funny. Chuck the Farmer? Has a certain ring to it. And he does have a Paddy hat."

"Hey!" Jenny punched him. "Don't slate the flat cap."

"Don't punch me. I bruise. I'm tender, like a peach."

"Like an old woman."

"And you speak from experience?"

Jenny rolled her eyes. "Shut up and eat your Chinese. Wait, no, tell me! What did Serena say?"

"Let me finish!" Dan cried, warding her off with his chopsticks. "You know how I feel about Chinese. Especially when said Chinese is in my stomach."

"Gossip Girl said they were AWOL," Jenny prompted slyly, picking at a piece of broccoli.

"M.I.A. Without a dialtone."

Orange and purple chopsticks clattered to the countertop.

"Way to go waste Chinese," Dan complained.

"Uh. Not hungry," Jenny said quickly. "Gotta go."

"Hey!"

"I just remembered I have the biggest French quiz tomorrow and I haven't done any prep yet," she called over her shoulder, almost tripping over the couch in her haste to get to her room. Dan watched her go. She could have at least made an effort to concoct a halfway believable excuse. Not that he had a problem.

He pulled Jenny's barely-touched vegetarian curry towards him. "Oh well. All the more for me."

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

Blair's teeth were chattering. It was embarrassing, that he could physically hear her weakness reverberating around the room. Her only blessing was he could not see her blush for the gloom. Her dignity could not take another hammering, not this evening. She would not give in and move to the radiator, where he sat. Where he could easily reach over and pull her into his warm embrace.

She clamped her jaw shut and her whole body shook.

Chuck said nothing, but she could feel him smirking, feel his smirk crawling all over her skin. "What's the matter, Bass?" she asked into the blackness, sickly sweet. "Are you cold?"

"I thought you were done asking stupid questions."

"I thought you were done being a dick."

"Package deal, sunshine," Chuck replied, yawning and stretching. The manacle, though free of the radiator, rattled. A constant reminder of their situation, shackling them to reality. Blair gave a shudder that had nothing to do with the cold.

"Does it have a return address?"

He chuckled, a rich deep noise, like vintage red. "Kitten has claws."

"Kitten needs a nail file, and badly," Blair whined, hiding her hands under the blanket. Nothing excused bad cuticles.

Chuck sounded suitably horrified. "I could not agree more."

Triumph flowed through Blair, lending warmth to all over. Why Chuck Bass's agreeability inspired such a rush of feeling, she did not know, nor did she dwell on it. She thought of him only a conversation partner. But still – he _had _agreed with her.

"Well, well, well. You _agree_, do you? You _agree _with _me_."

Chuck gave a wry grin. "Quote me and I'll deny it."

"I'm sure the empty bottle of Volvic here will corroborate my statement." Blair groped about for the witness.

Chuck snorted. "He can be bought."

"I'll file a motion to have the witness sequestered," she snapped, not to be outdone, not by Chuck Bass.

"I'll buy the judge."

"I'll _sleep_ with the judge."

"What if he's gay?"

"Eric will sleep with the judge."

"What if _she's _gay?"

"Desperate times call for desperate measures," Blair said with sage and female ambiguity.

"Blair?" said Chuck.

"Yes Chuck?" said Blair.

"It's an empty bottle of Volvic."

Together, they teetered on the break, on the edge of the cliff, swaying back and forth in the wind, toes curling the edge, arms flailing madly, pinwheeling as the fought to regain their balance. But they were trying hard, more filling the time. Waiting for the other to make the first move.

Blair snuck a look. His head was to the side. He was biting his knuckles. She looked away. He would break, she knew it. She could wait, and follow.

Chuck forced down his laughter. It filled his stomach like hot magma, liquid rock, churning, hissing, needing to escape. He could see Blair visibly shaking with the effort to contain her own giggles. He looked away, over at the window. He squinted hard, willing himself to see something more than nothingness, searching the heavens for a sign. But there was only blackness, an empty hole in the world, and then ...

A single star twinkled, a diamond in the gutter. And Chuck stumbled blindly across the room, feeling his way with numb hands and a burning heart. He stood in front of. He tore open the Oreos. He took one, twisted it, and licked the cream off one half. Chuck handed her the other half, half the biscuit and half the cream, half of all he had, and said, "Please. Take it."

"I love Oreos."

He couldn't see her, but he didn't need to.

"I know you," he said, simply, and walked the longest walk back to his side of the world.

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

_Extra extra, this just in. Turns out that our favourite non-couple AREN'T soaking up the sun in St. Tropez. I don't hear a tiny patter of feet and stop looking at those flat caps in Barneys, according to my newest BFF, C and B are M.I.A. Not even S or N know where these two are. _

_Are you thinking what I'm thinking Upper East Side?_

_You know you love me,_

_XOXO, Gossip Girl_

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

He could hear their inane conversations, tinny and automated, through the headset. He could watch their movements on the screens. The door was locked from the outside, the window was nailed shut; he had done it himself. The first time he had picked up a hammer in his life. It felt good. He had them right where he wanted them. And, in having the boy, he had Bart – and Bart had Bass Industries.

But not for long.

He could not have planned it better. He even had a spare. Pretty girl, too.

He had a weakness for pretty girls. Maybe she could help him celebrate, at the end.

Chelsea lounged on the bed, boots off, holes in his socks, picking at his nails with a pearl-handled straight razor. Chelsea was not his real name, but it suited him. He was a pitiful thing, a scraggly ginger with no chin and small, feminine hands with well-kept nails. "When's this shit going down boss?" Chelsea asked. "It's been four days. I'm fuckin' bored."

He kept his eyes on the screens, not looking at Chelsea, careful not to touch anything. Not because he thought his overcoat might leave fibres, but because everything was filthy and he did not do filth. Unless it involved pretty girls. Family weakness.

He flicked a non-existent spot of dirt off his sleeve.

The door banged open and the smell of cheap Chinese and snow wafted in. Manchester dumped the takeout on the table, Arsenal yanking the door shut behind them. Chelsea sat up like a Jack-in-the-Box. Liverpool lumbered out of the bathroom, accompanied by the sound of the flush gurgling in the old pipes.

Four men were sure to be enough, and Arsenal was ex-IRA, a professional. The rest were ordinary men, desperate, ordinary men; the most dangerous kind of animal. He didn't supply them with guns. The last thing he wanted was for someone to get overexcited and pop a cap in his golden ticket. All they needed to do was keep the door locked, throw in the odd bit of food and follow orders.

They ate.

He pulled a matchbox from his coat pocket, a perfectly generic matchbox. It was slightly squashed and he squeezed it back into shape, setting it down on the makeshift table beside the empty carton of Chicken Chow Mein.

"Bart gets back from Marseilles tomorrow," he said. "Make sure he gets our welcome home gift."

* * *

So, people have been asking to meet the captors for a while now. Here they are! We're originally planned as just white noise but have since decided to extrapolate ... tehehe. As always, REVIEWS are LOVE. They help me write better, and FASTER! So review, my lovely, both good and bad, I'll take anything.

Just so people know, there's nothing significant about the kidnappers names, they're just alias, like Mr. White, Mr. Organe, Mr. Blonde et al, in _Reservoir Dogs_.

Thanks, Plonksie


	6. Chapter 6

_Disclaimer: I disclaim. Not feeling the creative juices rigth now_

**A/N:** is it wrong for me to find Season 2 Uncle Jack, like, SUPER-EXTRA-UBER-FREAKISHLY-HOTT-TTTTTTTTTTTT ... it is, isn't it? Blasphemy, right? I'm such a bad, bad Chair fan :(

REVIEWS: xoxo, you know I love you –_ odyjha __& __ilovecujo1993 __& __Nyx Underwood __& __itsoglatime __& __kousi __& __kpGG!* __& __pandagirl1001 __& __MElissa __& __teddy bear __& __Chris2035 __& __BassKingdom __& __HnM skinnys __& __3Words8letterssayit&I'myours __& __rose __& __Ingridmarie __& __dreamgurl __& __Kate2008 __& __EatTheHypeUp __& __BassBillionaire __&__ LuLuLG __& __ggff-fan __&__ ronan03 __& __Cathybronte __& __ggloverxx19 __& __D:_

And a three cheers for my new Beta, Tatania_.  
_

**

* * *

STOCKHOLM SYNDROME**

**  
Chapter Six**

_  
And when we meet, as I'm sure we will  
All that was there will be there still  
I'll let it pass and hold my tongue  
And you will think  
That I've moved on  
But I will go down with this ship  
I won't put my hands up and surrender  
There will be no white flag above my door  
I'm in love  
And always will be  
_'White Flag' – Dido

"Chuck?"

"What, Waldorf?"

"It was nice having a civil conversation."

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. Word vomit.

"Yes."

Word vomit. His stomach was empty but his words were full. He meant them.

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

Nate couldn't sit still. His eyes itched with exhaustion and his feet were starting to twinge from all the pacing – yet he felt that if he should stop, just sit down, something terrible would happen. His mind raced at a hundred miles an hour. He was scared that if he sat down, slowed down, then his brain would too, and all the thoughts and emotions zooming around would come into focus. And Nate didn't think he could handle that right now.

"Nate?"

He turned quickly to find Serena standing in the doorway, sleep-mused and bleary-eyed. Nate thought she still looked lovely. Serena always looked lovely.

"What are you doing up?" She asked thickly. "It's four AM."

Nate shrugged. "Waiting, I guess."

"For Blair?"

"And Chuck," he admitted. Grudgingly.

He ran his hands over his face, unable to shake the feeling. Like a monkey, like something persistent and large, it clung to his back and chattered in his ear. Nate didn't speak monkey, but he was pretty sure of what it was saying.

Serena eased into the room and perched herself on the counter beside the espresso machine. "I can't sleep, either. I know Chuck does his own thing, but this is so unlike Blair ... Bart says we're overreacting, but I don't know. It feels ..."

"Wrong?" Nate supplied, nodding. "Yeah. I can't help feeling – I dunno. It's hard to explain."

And it was. Nate had never really felt like this before. He was caged. He was waiting for something , but he didn't know what.

Then Serena gave it words. She whispered, "I'm really worried, Nate. About both of them."

Worried.

Nate was not a worrier. Blair did all his worrying for him – Blair or his parents. He never saw the point in worrying; he was an Archibald, an UES prince. Everything, no matter how bleak it originally appeared, worked out. Nate knew it didn't look good on paper, this view of the world; some might call it naive, but he knew better. It was cynical. Money takes care of its own.

Sometimes he hated it, felt it robbed him of all choice and individuality, but he knew it was as much a part of him as his eyes, his hair, his arms. It was in his blood, and fighting it would only be waste of time and effort. But sometimes, sometimes, he liked to believe that things happened because Nate made them happen, and not because he was Nathaniel Archibald.

More for something to do than anything else, Nate opened the pantry. He grabbed the first thing he saw. Cheerios. Unfolding the plastic, he scooped up a handful of the little Os. Some pitter-pattered to the floor and he kicked them under the breakfast bar so they wouldn't get crushed.

"Want some?"

He offered the box to Serena. She took it with a smile. "Sure. Thanks." She plunged her hand into the box. "Wait. Is there Lucky Charms?"

Nate nodded towards the pantry. "Help yourself."

"Thanks."

They sat side by side on the counter, spoons in hand, sharing a bowl. Nate didn't think the cereals complimented each other very well, but it was nice to have company. He poured more Cheerios into the mix to even up the ratio. When they were kids, he and Chuck would watch Saturday morning cartoons and eat Cheerios straight from the box. Chuck did this weird thing where he ate them one shade at a time, first the darkish cream ones, then the puffy light ones, then the orange and finally the brown ones.

Nate couldn't eat. Everything tasted like cardboard

"I'm worried, too."

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

Chuck lay awake, staring out the window, counting the seconds between each passing train.

_Four thousand, eight hundred and sixty-three ... four thousand, eight hundred and sixty-four ... four thousand, eight hundred and sixty-five _

His eyes itched with tiredness, but he forced himself to stay awake. Someone had to be awake, just in case. And Blair was so tired. He could see her cracking, see the black smudges under her eyes, her drained pallor, her tiny fingers. He knew it was his fault, but he couldn't bring himself to apologise. She had wronged him first. It was only fair that she be the first to wave the white flag.

_Four thousand, eight hundred and seventy-two ... Four thousand, eight hundred and seventy-three_

A 'civilised conversation,' she had called it. Did that constitute a white flag? A smile bubbled to the surface as he recalled their most recent spat. No one could argue quite like Blair. It took commitment and killer instinct, and that little creative flair she possessed in spades. No one ever gave Blair enough credit for her wit. No one gave him much credit either; they saw him purely as some rich playboy whose mission was to bed as many girls as possible. His father, his teachers, even his friends – none of the expected anything from him other than a string of illegitimate children and some cushy, nepotistic job at Bass Industries.

Most likely to end up marrying a stripper in Vegas. Most likely to end up in rehab. Most likely to end up disowned. Most likely to end up living under a bridge.

In his father's words: he was just like Jack.

But Blair had called him smart.

_Four thousand, nine hundred and one ... Four thousand, nine hundred and two ... Four thousand, nine hundred and three ... Four thousand, nine hundred and four _

Chuck knew he was an intelligent being, more than most; intelligent enough not to waste his time filling his brain with such worthless things as the capital of Peru (which, in fact, he knew was Lima, having been there on a Bachelor Weekend. Lots of one-legged hookers, rabid dogs and bad scallops), ancient Greek architecture and the Civil War. He already spoke fluent French – taught by one of his many nannies – and had a good grasp of Italian and Spanish, with even a few words of German. Chuck understood the value of language, but not trigonometry. Should he ever feel so inclined to measure the distance between the stars, he would pay someone to do it for him.

There were no stars out tonight. Chuck rose, stiff and disjointed, and shuffled to the window, stumbling in the dark. He grasped the sill with both hands, steadying himself.

A train hurtled on by, never stopping.

Chuck waved but nobody saw him.

He leaned on the sill, willing himself to see more than black. Shadows hung, whispering in the wind, but there was nothing. There was nothing. In front of him, a huge empty building blocked the horizon. Below him, the alley was deserted, nothing but an abandoned cement mixer and two shovels. Chuck craned his neck, but his peripheral vision was limited. More empty buildings, more blackness. More nothing. His father had bought many a property like this during the last depression, derelict warehouses on the Hudson, and turned them into today's skyline.

Chuck ached for the sky line, the lights, the sounds, the people, the knowledge that he was not alone.

He looked over at Blair's sleeping figure. He might as well be alone for all she cared. They had 'civilised conversations.' Friends had civilised conversations.

_Forty ... forty-one ... forty-two ... forty-three ... forty-four_

He wondered if she and Nate had civilised conversations. Nate, the great big elephant in the room. He was bound to come up in conversation sooner or later, and Chuck knew it would not be civil. She wanted Nate, he wanted her, and Nate wanted neither of them. Nate wanted Serena. But Serena wanted Dan.

Chuck banged his head on the sill.

He stayed like that for a while, on his knees, head resting against the ledge. A coldness whistled through the gap, blowing at his heavy hair. It was almost pleasant. And he was so tired. He felt it his very bones, hollowing him out, a bone-marrow feeling that had nothing to do with his current exhaustion. Chuck realised why he hated being alone.

It gave him far too much time to think.

His raised his head slowly, a scuba driver resurfacing, fearful of the bends. His head broke the surface, and he smiled. He couldn't help it. The moon had pushed her way to the front and shattered the darkness.

Quickly, he stole over to where Blair lay, shaking her awake. "Wha ..." She mumbled sleepily, scrunching up her nose. Her hair was messy. "Chuck? It's ... it's the middle of the night."

He kept smiling like an idiot. He took her by the hand and guided her to the light washing in through the window. "Look," he whispered, pointing.

"Oh."

They stood, together, bathed in pearly light, some celestial glow, just staring.

"I've never seen it like this before," Blair said. "It's beautiful."

Chuck wanted to tuck the stray curl behind her ear, wanted to say _Not as a beautiful as you_, wanted to stand behind her, his arms around her waist, his chin resting on her shoulder, wanted her to reach up and run her fingers through his hair. Wanted her.

Chuck Bass always got what he wanted, but so did Blair Waldorf, and she threw the loudest tantrums. She wanted Nate, he knew that, and he wanted her to be happy.

So he said, "Yes. It is."

"Thank you for waking me." She sounded like a robot.

Chuck's throat was tight. "You're welcome."

"Could you not sleep?"

"I sleep star-gaze."

"There are no stars. Not tonight." She touched her hand to the window, tracing out the moon. "So where do you come from, darling?" She was so close her breath fogged up the glass. With a dainty finger, she drew a heart.

She turned to him. Suddenly. "Why don't we ever do this in the city?" She sighed, a soft whisper of contentment. Chuck tried to catch it. Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket, save it for a rainy day. "Why don't we every just stop and watch the world go by? It's so beautiful."

"We're too busy," Chuck reasoned. "Time is money."

"Money can't buy this."

"No one's tried."

Blair smiled, and Chuck suddenly understood Shakespeare.

"Buy me tonight, Chuck Bass," she whispered into his chest.

Chuck caught her head under his chin, holding her close. She fit. She fit like the missing piece to the puzzle. And he was Superman. Just like that, flying was possible. Dying was impossible.

"I'll buy you the moon," he promised. Fiercely. Jamming his eyes shut. "I'll buy you forever."

He could tell her these things because he was speaking from the heart. The heart cannot blush; it's already red.

"I doubt you could pass off forever as a business expense," she teased.

Chuck winked down at her. "I'll just tell father I'm ensuring the endurance of Bass Industries."

"And it'll be good for PR," she added, grinning.

"Stock will skyrocket."

"Gotta get me some'a that hot shit."

"Keep it PG, Waldorf."

"But then how will you kiss me?"

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

The moment the words left her lips, she regretted ever uttering them, ever even thinking of them. Or, more, she did not regret the words themselves, nor the feeling behind them, but his face. He looked at her like she had thrust a dagger into his flesh, and twisted it. He looked like he was dying.

**xoxoxoxoxoxo**

In the pitch black everything became clear. He was a toy to her. She was bored, so she resorted to playing with him. Jerking him around like a puppet on the string, throwing him like an old ragdoll she had outgrown, stabbing his heart like the crimson velvet pin cushion she kept stashed in a shoebox in the bottom of her closet after her disastrous attempt at design, hiding away the proof of failure. Chuck was her voodoo doll. It was very real, and it really hurt.

Why couldn't she just forget him, like she had the pincushion? Why couldn't she give him up as a bad job and let him live his life? Why couldn't she just let him go?

They were still holding hands.

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

The door smashed open. Light crashed in like water in a sinking ship. Men in balaclavas and dirty boots. Two were huge, yelling and stamping and pointing, huge hands grabbing. One was small and crazed, brandishing a blade. The last stood in the door, cool and collected, just observing with nasty eyes.

Instinctively, they jumped together, grabbing at each other, looking for protection, looking to protect. The huge men descended on them, ripping and tearing like savage dogs sharing a single bone, trying to separate something that ought to stay whole. One latched on to Blair and was attempting to pull her away, but she hung on grimly to Chuck's hand. Chuck's blood ran cold. He could not feel her nails digging into his skin. He could not feel anything. The world pulsed around him, so slowly it seemed too fast. He felt high.

And he had a long way to fall.

Blair screamed, and kept screaming. She couldn't help it.

Chuck could see it now. The man would break her fingers, yank her off, fling her to the other side of the room. She was a porcelain doll. She would shatter into a million pieces. Chuck was no doctor. If she broke a bone, he could not kiss it better.

So instead he broke her heart.

He closed his hand around Blair's. With a lover's touch, he peeled her free, bit by bit, until their connection was nothing but fingertips, grazing, and brown eyes. The pull of her orbs was like the moon on the tide, but Chuck was no sea. He was man.

"Let me go, Blair," he said, vicious and cold, because she had to believe him.

She gave a little shudder and dropped his hand. Chuck heard something crack, but he ignored it. He stooped down and picked up his jacket off the floor. He put his right hand in the right sleeve, and his left hand in the left sleeve, and straightened his lapel. He pulled down his cuffs. He fixed his tie.

"Gentlemen." Chuck squared his shoulders and became a good guy. A hero. A white knight. A king. A man. It was a pity the princess was too busy crying to see it. He took a breath, a diver going down deep. "Shall we?"

* * *

OMG DEEP BREATH. Chuck being noble?!??! Whatever next??!?! Dan Humphrey shopping at Bendels?!!??! Lol - hope you enjoyed this chapter and please PLEASE **REVIEW**. Next chapter, be warned, is intense, so I need some intensing review to prep it. Yeah? Yeah? Yeah? ;)

Thanks so much, Plonksie


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: **FYI, the PSNI stands for the Police Service of Northern Ireland, and the UVF the Ulster Volunteer Force. AND this chapter contains some **violence and general nastiness, so BE WARNED. **I'm sorry if anyone gets offended, totally creeped out, vomits, sues me for emotional abuse, etc.

**A/N II:** this might sound a LEEETLE bit odd, but please imagine this chapter with the lyrics. I feel, for the first time, I've got them spot on, so just pull up a YouTube window and play it. But, then agin, it could just be my inner Quentin Tarantino wanting to be creepy; I figured _Stuck In The Middle With You_ was a tad bit obvious

_Disclaimer: it's Josh's brunch - I've just crashed it and ate ALL the strawberries. Every last one. Hells yeah biatch!  
_

REVIEWS: again, have gotten the most lovely, LOVELY reviews. Just wow, feeling so loved – _Arazadia _&_ BassKingdom _& _3Words8letterssayit&I'myours _& _kpGG!* _& _LetMeIn1812 _& _Kate2008 _& _pandagirl1001 _&_ dreamgurl _& _blair riddle vulturi_ &_ rose _& _ilovecujo1993 _& _annablake _&_ Chris2035 _& _LuLuLG _& _itsoglatime _& _EatTheHypeUp _& _ggff-fan _& _Melissa _& _HnM skinnys _&_ Krazy4Spike _& _BassBillionaire _& _DIYer4life _& _brianna _&_ Cathybronte _& _xoxogg4lifexoxo _& _ingridmarie _& _Scarlett Forest _&_ ronan03 _& _:D _

My Beta, _Titania_, has been my own, personal Jesus. Worship her

**

* * *

STOCKHOLM SYNDROME**

**  
Chapter Seven**

_  
Did I disappoint you or let you down?_  
_ Should I be feeling guilty or let the judges frown?_  
_ 'Cause I saw the end before we'd begun_  
_ Yes I saw you were blinded and I knew I had won_  
_ So I took what's mine by eternal right_  
_ Took your soul out into the night_  
_ It may be over but it won't stop there_  
_ I am here for you if you'd only care  
And as you move on, remember me_  
_ Remember us and all we used to be_  
_ I know you well, I know your smell_  
_ I've been addicted to you_  
_And I love you, I swear that's true_  
_ I cannot live without you_  
_Goodbye my lover, _  
_Goodbye my friend_  
_You have been the one_  
_You have been the one for me_  
'Goodbye My Lover' – James Blunt

xoxo

Once the door was shut, with Blair alone on the other side, Chuck struggled. He kicked and screamed, writhing like an eel. When they caught his hands and feet, he bit. When they tied his wrists and ankles to a chair with a fully-grown man holding down his chest, he spat. His spittle hit the nasty man in his nasty eyes. Nasty man threw back his head and laughed.

"Let's be having yeh, Charlie. Yeh've got spine," he said. And backhanded him.

Chuck spat again, this time red. "I'm no Charlie," he snarled. "I'm Chuck Bass."

"Oh, don't we know that, boyo." He spoke with a thick Belfast accent, lyrical and soft. "That's the whole fookin' point."

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

Blair sat alone. She felt nothing. When Chuck yelled out, she felt nothing. When things went bang and crash and someone spoke with a Belfast accent that reminded her of all the IRA bad guys in the movies Nate used to watch, the psychotic ones who shot their own brothers in the kneecaps for talking to the Protestant girl with the pretty eyes, Blair felt nothing.

The moon filled the room with a dead light, and the shadows whispered. Blair might have been scared, but she felt nothing. She was not cold.

She opened the Snickers bar. She ate the Snickers bar. She tore the Snickers bar wrapper into lots of little plastic pieces. She picked up all the tiny plastic pieces of the Snickers bar wrapper and threw them up into the air. They floated downwards and landed everywhere. They landed in her hair, but she did not shake them off.

Beyond the door, at the end of the world, Chuck said he was Chuck Bass.

Blair felt nothing and opened the Mars bar.

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

Chuck could feel the man smiling through the black wool. He was holding up a little matchbox, squashing it in and out of shape. He opened the matchbox.

""Yeh see, Charlie– "

"Chuck."

"Yeh see there's nuthin' in the wee matchbox." He held the matchbox out to Chuck. "Yeh can see, like? Nuthin' in it. Not a fookin' thing."

He paused. Chuck said nothing. He didn't trust himself to speak. He thought he might vomit, or scream, or beg. He thought of his father and wondered what he would do when he got the matchbox and whatever body part it contained. Would he cry over it, or throw it in the trash as some symbolic gesture for what he wanted to do with his son?

"But we're about to change that, so we are. Because, as yeh rightly said there, yeh're Chuck Bass. Meanin' the old man is Bart Bass. Meanin' he has a lot of fookin' money. Do the maths, boyo."

He put the matchbox, in two halves, in Chuck's lap, and gave his cheek a soft slap, then went to fetch something.

"Do you expect me to say something?" Chuck yelled at his back. "Am I after dinner entertainment?"

"Well, do yeh sing?" he asked, his back still turned. There was the dull metal click of a pincher closing.

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

Blair sat in a silent snowstorm. She was no longer alone, instead surrounded by tiny pieces of candy wrapper, enveloped in the sweetness she could not get from another human being. Her teeth hurt. Her stomach hurt. Her heart was hollow. Chuck yelled something, but she didn't understand. English seemed so foreign. Blair only understood sugar. She hid away from the moon's spotlight, her face and fingers stained with guilt and chocolate. She wiped them on Chuck's scarf, but they stayed dirty.

Out, out, damn spot.

Her tongue was black. Chocolate and E132 and lies.

She unwrapped the Almond M&Ms. First she ate all the brown ones, then the orange ones, then the yellows, the greens, the reds, the blues. She shredded the package. She opened a bag of Skittles and downed them all in one go.

There was a hole in her chest and she had to fill it before she caved in on herself.

Someone was singing.

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

"Where I'm from, lad, we're fond of the singing. And, sure, aren't we all good at it. We're so good, in fact now, we can make almost anyone sing along. I used to have all the boys from the PSNI singing meself."

When he turned around, he was holding a pair of pliers.

"You should have gone on _American Idol_," Chuck said.

The man threw back his head and laughed. His whole body sagged backwards. And then snapped forward, like a willow in the wind. Like a Jack-in-the-Box.

"Will yeh sing with me, Charlie boy?" He asked, taking a step forward.

Chuck leaned back in his chair. "Can I make you an offer you can't refuse instead?"

"I only want yeh to sing with me."

He took another step forwards, under the light, and the pliers flashed. Chuck flattened himself against the chair.

"Whatever you're being offered, I'll double it."

"But I only want a song." The man sounded insulted.

Chuck thrashed against his bonds. The arms around his throat tightened like a vice. He choked.

"Stop fucking movin', kid," cried his captor. "Don't wanna kill ya. C'mon, kid, please."

Chuck fought harder. He remembered watching _Gladiator _with Blair when Nate had tonsillitis. He stroked her hair and fell in love with her, tumbling down and down the rabbit hole as she cried, oblivious to him because Russell Crowe was in a skirt.

He couldn't breathe.

"My father ... He'll give you ... anything. He'll sing with ... you. All ... day."

Chuck threw his weight backwards, one last desperate try. The chair wobbled, but it was not enough. It was never enough for Bart. Chuck could see his father laughing at him. He was vaguely aware that he was screaming, the sound coming to him from far off, as though through a badly-tuned radio.

"Shh," chided the man. "Yeh'll ruin yehr singin' voice."

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

Blair heard yelling. She covered her ears. Her jawbone moved beneath her fingers as she chewed. It took her three attempts to open the last package. The Oreos. Her hands were shaking. She dropped the first cookie. She picked it up again and twisted.

Chuck screamed.

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

"_This old man_," he sang. "_He played one_." He attached the pliers to Chuck's thumbnail. "_He played knick-knack on my ... thumb_."

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

Chuck screamed, and Blair felt it. She felt it inside her, and the hollow space was suddenly full. Now there wasn't enough space for her and Chuck and all the candy, so she vomited. And she kept vomiting until there was nothing coming up, only hate and hydrochloric acid. The candy wrappers withered, contorting and twisting and shrinking up like fish in a frying pan. They shrieked in tiny voices, _help me! HELP ME! _But Blair couldn't hear. She didn't speak sugar, she only spoke Chuck.

Screaming.

It hit her like a kick to the gut, and she doubled over. She felt it. She felt it hard.

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

Chuck had seen many a torture scene before. In _Reservoir Dogs,_ Michael Madson cut someone's ear off; _Fight Club_, Ed Norton broke Jared Leto's face just because he wanted to destroy something fucking beautiful; Dustin Hoffman had holes drilled in his teeth by a Nazi dentist in _Marathon Man_; Russian roulette in _The Deer Hunter_; mostly all of _Sin City, A Clockwork Orange_, _American Pyscho_, and _The Passion of the Christ_. He prided himself on his grit. Nate had to pretend to go to the restroom, to want more popcorn, to sleep, even when they were kids and scary meant _Nightmare on Elm Street _or Bart Bass.

He had seen _Titanic_ over sixteen times. He thought he knew what torture was. He had watched the girl he loved choose his best friend. He thought he knew what pain was.

The man dropped his thumb nail into the matchbox.

He wondered if Blair was listening. He wondered if she was enjoying herself.

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

Blair couldn't get up. Every fresh scream was a boot on her back, forcing her down. She lay face down, crying into the carpet and into his scarf. She couldn't understand why men felt the need to be noble. Selfish beasts. We're stronger than you, little woman, we'll take the pain for you. Didn't they know anything they felt, she felt too, twice over? Didn't they know it was better to let her fall over and then pick up her and kiss her better, than to fall for her?

The hollow place inside her was swelling up with pain. It was a balloon. It would burst.

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

"_Keep it together, Charlie!_"

Someone was slapping his face. Someone was yelling in his ear. Someone was singing. Someone was screaming. There were six fingernails in the box. Every time the pain redoubled. He was trapped in a cocoon of agony, but there would be no butterfly. He couldn't see a thing. He couldn't make a sound. Someone was screaming for him. That didn't help. He wanted it to stop.

Someone was humming _Stuck In The Middle With You_.

Chuck wanted to scream but he was too tired.

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxox**

Blair was crying. She hammered on the door. She called his name, over and over and over and over, until it was all she could remember. She sank to her knees, pounding on the wood, pounding. Her hands were bleeding, but she did not give up. She needed to break through. She needed to be there. With him.

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

They were screaming each other's names, but this was different. This was something permanent.

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

He couldn't take it anymore. He was past endurance. He simply existed. He could not breathe, only lie there, the chair the only thing keeping him upright. The man fixed the pliers to the last nail. It took a long time. Chuck's hands shook, slick and shiny with blood.

"Any words to mark this momentous occasion, boyo," he said. "I feel as if we're after gettin' to know each other. And fook's sake, this here's the end, like."

His lips and the inside of his mouth had been reduced to bloody pulp from biting down. He had swallowed blood and dignity. His whole body trembled like a leaf in a hurricane. There was nothing left but his pride. He had not said please.

Basses did not say please.

From somewhere, Chuck said, "I'll look you up on Facebook."

After the last nail was ripped from him, they made him sign a note. He couldn't write. They laughed, ruffling his hair. He slumped against the table. His skeleton was gone. He could not write his own name. Chuck hadn't cried since he was four years old. Bart did not approve of tears.

But Bart wasn't fucking here. Bart was never fucking there. And Chuck did not give a flying fuck what Bart thought. That man could fucking leave him here to fucking rot, he did not fucking care anymore. He just didn't fucking care.

The tears smudged the ink and made the blood run a pastel pink, like roses and baby fingers and Blair's toes.

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

It was over.

Outside the window, the rain poured. There was so much of it, but it made no sound. Everything was wet, water was everywhere. The sky was crying. Blair's heart was still on the window. She touched her hot hands, raw and red, against the cold glass. She stretched her hand over her heart. She took it back. She felt it beat insider her.

The door opened. All at once, someone had her, breathing Chicken Chow Mein against her cheek, grabbing hold of her neck, twisting. There was a blade. Blair didn't scream. Insider her chest, her heart beat on. She closed her eyes and waited for the knife to slice her throat. Thick fingers gripped a rope of her hair. Everything was so tense, tight as a bowstring, tight as a heartstring, and then she was on the floor. Little bits of her hair wafted down around her.

Framed by the moonlight, the man in the balaclava held a knife in one hand and a lock of her hair in the other. He separated the curl in two, and gave her an almost smile. A sad little smile that made her wonder if he had kids of his own.

"Do you have a daughter, Mister?" She asked in a voice that wasn't her own.

The man said nothing. He didn't need to. Blair could hear his heart beat. He left quickly.

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

They dragged him back and dumped him like a garbage bag. Something used and useless.

Blair lunged forward and caught her man's leg. The man who had cut her hair, the man who had a daughter. "Please. A First-Aid kit. Please." He gave it to her, with two bottles of water, a roll of toilet paper, four packets of regular M&Ms and a small flashlight in a plastic bag from 7-11.

Blair switched on the flashlight. Chuck moaned.

She gathered everything together, slung the blankets over her shoulder, and crawled over to him. First she balled up a blanket and laid it under his head, throwing a second over him. Blair opened the first bottle of water and held it to his lips.

"Drink," she ordered. "You have to."

Water split down his chin in pink rivers. He drank, greedily, like a baby.

Blair cried. His eyes were closed, so he couldn't see. Like the rain, she made no sound.

He writhed, slowly, rocking from side to side. His hands were black, curled into claws, trembling. She took one. It was hot to the touch. He let out a whimper. She shushed him, stroking his cheek. Kissing his forehead. Slicking back his damp hair. Blair opened the small green box and unpackaged the sling. She had no use for it as a sling, so she soaked it in water. She washed his face. She was Mary Magdalene, and he didn't look a thing like Jesus, but she didn't care. She was tender.

She washed his hands. The sling went from cream to red as she stripped back his layers. He had no fingernails, only raw jagged holes with black clots and torn things. He screamed when she applied antiseptic. She tried to be gentle and kind, but she knew, no matter what she did, she would hurt him. He begged her not to, to leave him be. He screamed and cursed her and said things that made her cry harder. He writhed and thrashed and broke her, but she held firm. Pain now was better than more pain later when the doctors had to cut off his fingers for septicaemia. She told him this, but he wasn't listening. He was crying on the floor.

"I'm so sorry," she breathed into his neck. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

There was no easy way out, so Blair did what was right. When she was finished, she held him so tightly she feared he might break. He groped for her hand. He held it. Maybe she was delusional from sleep deprivation, from hunger or exhaustion or PTS, but she heard him say it was worth the pain.

* * *

Okay. Firstly, apologies. Don't yell. It had to be done. And I'm sorry.

Secondly, call me a bitch, but people who add stories to their Favourites and Alerts and then DON'T REVIEW make me angry.

Thirdly, people who REVIEW make me really happy inside. And when I'm happy, Chuck and Blair are happy, so ....

Fourthly – if fourthly is a word! – thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed it and don't hate me too much.

Thanks, Plonksie


	8. Chapter 8

_Disclaimer: although I own eighty-two pots of thoroughly redundant nail polish (swear, was cleaning room yesterday- I know, don't ask -and counted), a rather spiffing purple pen and a fish named Eric (though no license, sadly) ... I don't own Gossip Girl. Though I feel that the pen ALMOST compensates. It is pretty epic, now, in fairness_

**A/N: **JUST WATCHED 3.18 ONLINE AND **OMFG**! IT WAS NOT COOL BEANS! ... and is it just me, or are they hinting at a bit of DAIR?!?!!!? And why did Serena leave Carter? And when did Carter start slicking his hair? And is Jenny a BITCH or what, whoa mamma?!? AND WTF IS GOING ON??!!? WHY ARE THEY DOING THIS TO US?!??! Come back Season One, all is forgiven. And where the fuck is Chuck's scarf?

Okay, rant over.

For now.

REVIEWS ... **LOVE BOMB! **All of you, just WOW. I was seriously blown away with the response for the last chapter. So many NEW reviewers, plus all my old friends! Just love you lots guys, lots like Jelly Tots – and I'll tell you something for nothing now, me loves the Jelly Tots. Even though, being diabetic, I can't have many, which just makes me love them MORE – like I love you peeps: _EatTheHypeUp _& _schizoOntheDancefloor _&_ voguelover1996 _&_ BassBillionaire _& _hysteria3ced _& _S__yrianora _&_ Cara _&_ forblueskies89 _& _CBBW3words8letters _& _LuLu _& _Krazy4Spike _& _odyjha _& _pandagirl1001 _& _Lub2Laff95 _& _VanillaCokeQueen _& _wwwdivaxxx_& _rose _& _Penelope _& _Melissa _& _Chris2035 _& _Anna _& _C__athybronte _&_ dreamgurl _& _myRyRy _& _Severiona Black _& _:D _& _Ninoan _& _EmilyEstatic _& _ggff-fan _& _ilovecujo1993 _& _CheeseSwiss _& _NJBC _& _Gal _& _itsolgatime _& _MiaTonili _& _Ingridmarie _& _kpGG!*_ & _3Words8letterssayit&I'myours _& _ronan03 _& _crd-crd _& _svenjen _& _BassKingdom _& _LuLuLG _& _Kate2008 _& _riclynshea _& _annablake _& _word123 _& _HnM skinnys _& _Spacebongo _& _MrsCullen-Bass _& _IcingTheCake _& _aabbyy _&_ 3  
_

And let's not forget to LOVE BOMB Titania, my Beta, as well

**A/N II: **Again, I feel the lyrics work, so give them a listen while reading and try not to judge my lapse in taste. I'm just going to say it's a LONG story and that we go back a LONG way, okay? LOL

**

* * *

STOCKHOLM SYNDROME**

**  
Chapter Eight**

_  
__Treat me like a child  
Throw your arms around me  
Oh please protect me  
Bruised and battered by your words  
Dazed and shattered now it hurts  
But when I need you  
You're almost here  
And I know that's not enough  
And when I'm with you  
I'm close to tears  
Because you're only almost here  
_'Almost Here' – Brian McFadden & Delta Goodrem

xoxo_  
_

Breakfast at the Basses wasn't the same. All the chairs were full, Nate sat by Serena, but it wasn't the same. There was a hole. A freshly-pressed pair of school pants thrown over an empty seat; a dry toothbrush and last week's towels, still pristine; a fresh bed; a fridge full of tomato juice because no one made Bloody Marys except Chuck. They sat around the table, everyone talking, but no one saying anything.

"Pass the butter," Serena said, nodding to Eric.

"Please," Lily scolded.

"Sorry. Please. The butter."

Eric handed her the pad. "Sure."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Bart stared at the blue-eyed boy occupying Charles' chair. "So. Nathanial ..." He couldn't think of anything to say. "How is school going? I hear the lacrosse team is performing well."

"Lacrosse season doesn't start 'til next semester, sir," Nate replied. "But, eh, water polo is great. We're training twice a week. Coach Wenger, he's this German guy, new this year. He's amazing. He's taught us all these new plays." Bart nodded, egging him on. He needed something to drown out the white noise in his head. "And then there's soccer."

"Jack is a soccer fan," Bart found himself saying. "My brother, Jack. He spent time in London, years ago, for Bass Industries. He developed quite a taste for the sport."

"Dan likes soccer," Serena piped up. "He supports Arsenal."

"I thought an arsenal was a place where you stashed weapons?" Eric said, frowning. "English Premier League teams have such weird names."

"No, they're mainly after cities," Nate said, munching on toast and Nutella. Bart remembered, when they were small, coming home to find Nathanial sitting on his kitchen counter, his face brown and jars clutched between sticky fingers. "Or places. Like, uh, Liverpool and Man U – Manchester's a city."

"David Beckham plays for Man U, doesn't he?" Serena asked with a vacant expression. She was watching her mother toy with her grapefruit. Lily's face was drawn and pale.

"Not since, like, 2003. He played for Real Madrid– "

Eric said, "Christiano Ronaldo plays for them now." He blushed, just a little.

"He's a douche," Nate scoffed.

"But a good-looking one."

"Can't say I see it, but whatever floats your boat, man."

Serena thought for a moment and then spoke, "And speaking of good-looking douches, has anyone heard from Chuck?"

There was silence.

And then Nate said, "I can't believe you said Chuck was good-looking." And he was laughing. They were all laughing. When the laughter stopped, the silence was so extreme Serena thought her ears might bleed. She was glad when the doorbell rang.

Everyone leapt to their feet.

"I'll get it," Nate said firmly, brushing croissant crumbs off his school shirt. "I'm the guest."

They argued, she and Nate and Eric and Bart, until the doorbell rang again, this time more persistently. Lily hurried off without a word and returned with a large package badly wrapped in brown paper. "Vanya said this was just biked to the building." She handed it to Bart. "It's for you."

URGENT was stamped on the front in big red letters. URGENT.

Bart swallowed and set the package down on the countertop. He did not want to open it. The silence pounded on like a heavy bassline. Like a heartbeat.

"Open it," Lily pleaded. She could hear the _Jaws_ theme in her head. "I can't take it. I have to know."

Nate took a step closer to Serena. She took his hand. Both of them ignored Eric's lingering look. If Dan were here, it would be his hand she held, she reasoned. Nate was her friend, and she needed a friend right now. Her mother squeezed Bart's shoulder reassuringly.

"School," Eric said. "We've got to go. We'll be late."

They had forty-five minutes; the journey, at the most, took ten.

Serena wanted to leave, but she couldn't move. It was like a horror movie; a car crash. You'll get nightmares, but you can't look away.

Bart ripped open the paper. Cushioned in old newspaper was a thick manila envelope. He walked slowly to his study, leaving the envelope on the counter.

"School," Eric repeated, more compellingly. But he didn't move until Bart came back holding a letter opener.

"I think that's a good idea, Eric," he agreed, like steel. "Arthur is waiting downstairs."

Serena moved closer to Nate as Bart sliced open the envelope with more force than was necessary. He reached inside and pulled out a smaller, white envelope and a tiny box wrapped in the same brown paper.

"Open it," Lily breathed.

Bart's fingers stuck to the duct tape and he had to use the blade. He gave the matchbox a little shake. It rattled.

Nate pulled Serena back. "We should go." His voice was low and intense. "Serena, I don't want to ..."

Serena sucked in a section of her lip and released it. And she nodded. "Let's go. Eric! We're leaving." They were still holding hands.

They were at the door when Lily screamed. Serena closed her eyes. Nate stopped breathing. Eric looked green. Bart said, in his Bart Bass voice, "Call Eleanor. Now. And the police."

He dropped the matchbox and fingernails scattered all over the floor.

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

He woke up screaming.

Blair had been dozing against the radiator, one eye open, his hand loose in hers, vaguely aware that the dead sleep she had lulled him into was breaking. She felt thrashing, murmurs, desperation. Fear. She felt like Snow White in the woods. She had never been able to watch that scene.

His screams – not yells, real screams – pierced her like icy daggers. He bolted upright in some wicked trance; lost, alone, scared. Blair wanted to scream, but she couldn't. She had to be strong, like he had been. She had to be strong for the both of them.

"Sshhh, Chuck." She went to wrap her arms around him, trying to hush his cries, terrified that the men, now a real presence – a lingering, constant menace on the blackest horizon – would come to silence him. "Ssshhh, my darling, please."

But he would not be silenced. He fought her, struggling against her embrace, pushing her away.

"No," he kept repeating. "No no no no no no no no."

"I know," Blair wept into his neck. "I know, darling. Please, Chuck. Please. Chuck. Chuck!"

Delirious, his eyes glowed like the moon.

"Ssshhhhh," Blair moaned, holding his hand so tight she could feel his bones crunching. "Sshhhhhhhhh."

He was staring at her with mad eyes. Like he had never seen her before; like it was she who was hurting him. And it _hurt_.

"Chuck."

He raised his fist.

Blair grabbed his hand, pulling it down out of the air. His black eyes bore into hers like a drill. Her whole body shook with the effort of subduing his hand. But she couldn't do it. She wasn't strong enough.

He easily overpowered her. She was on her back, her body bent bizarrely. He was leaning over her, trapping her, their hands locked in battle. His hair was a mess. He was a mess. She was a mess. Everything was a mess and a dampened sling could not clean it up. Chuck was completely gone. Blair could see nothing human in his eyes. There was nothing left but rubble and ruin and mess. And violence.

"Where are you?" she said into those eyes. "WHERE ARE YOU?"

It was a risk. She released his hand and cupped his cheek. She stroked his face with the pad of her thumb. She stroked his cheek, his ragged lips, his tears.

"Come back to me."

He collapsed beside her, curling up into a ball, protecting himself completely, trembling so violently she feared something might break, something worse than bones. He sobbed out loud. In the light of the moon, his fingertips had bled black through the bandages.

Blair laid a soft hand on his head. He twitched and cowered from her touch. It cut her like a whip, but she did not give up. She would not give up on Chuck. She lay down beside him, propping herself up on her elbow, pulling the blanket over them both. She stroked his hand, his face, his hair – a mother comforting the sick child. With every caress, she hushed him. With every caress, she promised him she would be there.

"I'm not going anywhere," Blair vowed. "I'm here. And you're safe now. You're safe with me. You're with me, and I'm not going anywhere." She drew light fingers through his hair. "I've got you. I've got you. I'll keep you safe. I'm not going anywhere. I'm here. Forever."

The moon seemed to smile down on her, all silver and true. Blair looked up, dizzied by its beauty, until something gripped at her hand. Startled, she glanced down.

Chuck had taken her hand again. The tension was slowly bleeding out of his limbs. Blair leaned back against the wall, unable to support herself. "Come on," she whispered. "Come back to me."

With help, he crawled into her lap, and she held his head to her chest so he could hear her heart beat for him. She rocked him ever so gently, singing, "_Moon river, wider than a mile. I'm crossing you in style some day..._"

She closed her eyes.

"_Oh, dream maker, you heartbreaker. Wherever you're going, I'm going your way…_"

In her own darkness, there was nothing but the two of them.

"_Two drifters off to see the world. There's such a lot of world to see..._"

So what if they had been kidnapped? Bart and her parents, they would pay the ransom. Blair had her doubts about Bart's affections for his son, or lack thereof, but she was certain he would not leave him to rot. And even if Bart did, she wouldn't. She couldn't.

"_We're after the same rainbow's end. Waiting 'round the bend. My huckleberry friend.._."

It was odd that she felt safe, with her Chuck in her arms, and not vice versa. Maybe it was the understanding – the fact that she had at last come to terms, however violently, with her situation that provided her with a certain solace. Or maybe it was Chuck. His utter dependence on her was nourishing. She felt fuller. Blair let her head drop against his.

"_Moon river and me._"

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

When the FBI had finished playing house in his living room, when the Waldorfs had returned home and the skulking presshounds had been evicted by an armed NYPD escort, Bart sat in the empty room. His face still stung where Eleanor had slapped him. She knew it wasn't his fault, but, as was human, she needed somebody else to blame.

He held Evelyn's photograph in his hands, stroking her face through the glass, never quite reaching her. "What would you do?" he asked. "What would you do, my darling?"

Her mouth never moved, but Bart knew the answer. It was a rhetorical question.

"I've lost him, Evie. I've lost your little boy."

He always called him 'her boy'. It had been her choice, not his.

"I should have known, I should have enlisted a bodyguard." _I should have cared. _"I've lost him."

But Bart knew that was a lie. There were photographs of Charles and Nathaniel, of Charles and Blair Waldorf, of the new family, of school friends, but none of the two of them. Father and son. Together. He had lost Chuck a long time ago.

* * *

OK, less crazy than last time, but hopefully still good. Got the most reviews last time ... To quote the Gubinator: I LOVE SEQUELS! Thanks so much for all your support, reviews, love. As always, all suggestions, criticisms, etc, are more than welcome.

Thanks, Plonksie


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: **argh! Seven whole days to the next episode!?! NOT COOL BEANS!?!?! As a wise woman once said, CAN'T THEY FIND SOMEONE ELSE TO TORTURE??!?!

_Disclaimer: Er ... the way things are going, I'm not sure I WANT this anymore. Though if they kill Jenny ..._

REVIEWS: you know you guys ARE MY LIFE. It's sad, but in the best possible way. _pandagirl1001 _& _Lalai _& _BrittyKay247 _& _SwissCheese _& _MiaTonili _& _BassBillionaire _& _ggff-fan _& _MrsCullen-Bass _& _majken _& _MizMizMi _& _Melissa _& _Gennyxoxo _& _LovelyG _& _gossipgirl456 _& _hysteria3ced _& _3Words8letterssayit&I'myours _& _kpGG!* _& _oh god _& _:D _& _Luv2Laff95 _& _svenjen _& _EatTheHypeUp _& _dreamgurl _& _ilovecujo1993 _& _rose _& _anneryn7 _& _BassKingdom _& _Kate2008 _& _NJBC Gal _& _schizoOntheDancefloor _& _HnM skinnys _& _Melissa _& _itsolgatime _& _wwwdivaxxx _& _Ingridmarie _& _Krazy4Spike _& _ronan03 _& _LuLuLG _& _Ninoan _

And here's a big FOR SHE'S A SQUISHY MARSHMALLOW (I thought JOLLY GOOD FELLOW was sexist) for my amazing Beta, Titania – though not implying that she's either squishy ... or a marshmallow. Not that that would be bad thing

_ps: there's a poll on my my profile asking a sensitive question pertaining to this particular fic. So, yeah, vote ... OR DIE! MWHAHAHAHAHA! No, seriously, I'm between two minds and this would really help_

**

* * *

STOCKHOLM SYNDROME**

**  
Chapter Nine**

_  
__And the sun sets in the sky_  
_ You're the apple of my eye_  
_ If the bomb goes off again_  
_ In my brain or on the train_  
_And we bury heads in sand_  
_ But my future's in my hands_  
_It means nothing_  
_ It means nothing_  
_ It means nothing_  
_ If I haven't got you_  
_ If I haven't got you_  
_ If I haven't got you_  
'It Means Nothing' – Stereophonics

xoxo _  
_

His home was unrecognisable, an explosion of papers and charts and wires and whirring monitors. Men in tasteless suits and cheap ties were crammed in like sardines, hunching over screens, yelling down phones, drinking coffee and circling things in red Sharpie. The shades were clamped down, and the harsh artificial light made the papers extra white. Bart had insisted on closed blinds after some clever cameraman hired the window cleaner's cart to drop by and snoop. He felt Lily's presence at his shoulder. He reached for her hand, and she took his quickly, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

"We've already spoken with Mr. andMrs. Waldorf, the girl's– "

"Blair," Lily corrected without thinking. "Her name is Blair."

Agent Ryan nodded graciously. "Blair's parents about any motive, but I think we can assume, judging by the ransom note– "

Bart looked anywhere but the corkboard. Sealed in a plastic evidence bag, pinned up for all to see, was a sheet of paper, all red with his son's blood. The note itself was typed, though down the bottom was a post-script scribbled in blue biro: _we have the girl._ Chuck's scrawl was unrecognisable. Bart felt his throat tighten as he wondered when they had made him sign: before or after the torture.

Lily held onto his hand. A week ago, her head had been full of happiness and wedding plans.

"–that they are only interested in your son, and that the gi– that Blair was an, um, unintended apprehension. Probably because she was with Charles at the time of the snatch." He clapped his hands together, clearing his throat. "That was the good news."

Bart stiffened.

"And the bad news?" Lily prompted tremulously.

The FBI man gave it to them straight. Bart appreciated his professionalism but it did not soften the blow. He was not a man to indulge in hope, but this time, he had. He had hoped and hoped. "DNA testing confirmed that the, uh, the nails belong – belonged – to your son. Charles Bass. The forensic team are working on getting a lock on when they were removed. But I'm being told it was quite recent. Early last night."

A silence swelled between them, a trench that the chaos of the room could not fill. A Chuck-sized hole.

"Can I have them back?" Bart asked.

"What back, sir?"

"The nails, his nails."

If Detective Ryan felt anything – surprise, shock, fear – he hid it well. "I'll see what I can do."

Bart nodded once. "Thank you… Just in case."

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

Cartoon Network was having a Pokémon week. It was all they could do, watch TV. Nate had taken to wearing gloves. School, parties, real life: what did those things mean with Chuck and Blair gone? They were in his house because the cops had invaded Serena's. Their presence made it all the more real, like life under florescent lighting. No flaw was left in shadow. Personally, he felt awkward in the Bass home, like an intruder on their grief. He wondered if Bart thought he was trying to replace Chuck.

Nate looked over at Serena, who was worrying her hair. If she continued, it would be in dreadlocks within the hour. Was she thinking about how Blair had kept all her Pokémon cards in those plastic wallets, the kind used by supernerds who build time machines in their parents' basement just so they could go back and play Dungeons and Dragons without feeling like total losers, like he was? Nate remembered when she discovered he kept his cards in an old shoebox, she came over right away, wallets in hand, and spent five hours sitting on his bedroom floor, organising his collection, card by card.

Nate had had over five hundred different cards.

He leapt up off the couch and ran to his room, throwing himself to his knees, not caring. Nate scrabbled under the bed, trawling through dust bunnies and odd socks, old papers and a broken Lacrosse stick – shimmying in further on his belly – two ties, one from St. Jude's and a purple one that looked suspiciously like Chuck's, candy wrappers, a torn paperback edition of _Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets _(which Nate thought was underrated) and, finally, a red leather folder.

He emerged, cheeks glowing in triumph, his hair a bird's nest. Serena immediately began picking the clumps of debris from his hair and t-shirt, leaning over his shoulder to gape at the folder. Blair had even labelled each card in her steady cursive. Leafing through it, page by page, he found an old Post-It bearing his own untidy print. He had been nine.

_I'll trade you a holographic Jigglypuff for a date_

Nate looked up at Serena. He handed her the Post-It. His hand was shaking. Something wet splashed onto the yellow paper, smudging the ink and washing away the past. Serena was crying.

Nate put away the folder and held her tight, the Post-It scrunched up in his hand. "I know," he kept whispering into her soft hair. "I know. I know. I know."

"Tell me they're going to be okay," Serena wept.

Nate's throat was suddenly too tight. "They're going to be okay."

"Tell me like you mean it."

"I swear to you, Serena, they're going to be okay."

Serena pulled away, gazing up at him with panda eyes. "The last thing I said to Blair was 'don't come back'. She went off with Chuck. She said she'd only be a second."

Nate shook his head and enveloped her in his arms again. "The last thing I said to Chuck was ..." He took a huge, shuddering breath, whispering, like in Confession. "'I don't ever want to see your face again'. He came by, to, I dunno, apologise. I slammed the door in his face."

"He knows you didn't mean it," Serena said quickly. They were holding hands, and she rubbed the back of his hand with her thumb.

"But I did mean it. And I meant what I said to Blair too, and that was pretty much the same."

"She knows you love her."

Nate nodded. "But not like that," he breathed. Serena's head was buried in his shoulder. He figured she was oblivious, deaf with grief. "Because I love someone else."

"So does Blair," Serena returned, figuring Nate was too preoccupied with guilt to hear. She snuggled closer to him. Nate rocked her gently, the sharp corners of the Post-It digging into his palm like a splinter. Serena's cell tinkled to life and he picked it up. Dan.

Nate pressed the ignore button.

"Who was it?" Serena asked in a muffled voice.

"No one," Nate said. "Just Penelope. I figured you wouldn't want to be bothered by her. I hung up."

Serena sighed. "Thank you, Nate."

"Don't mention it."

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

Bart sat in Chuck's room, lost in his reflection. He looked nothing like the boy in the scarce photographs scattered about the room. Charles was all his mother. He was all Bart had left, the only proof he and Evelyn had ever existed at all, save his own memories. Bart needed him back.

Agent Ryan had questioned him on motive. "Any enemies we should know about Mr. Bass? Anyone holding a grudge?"

Bart had replied, as politely as possible, "I'm Bart Bass."

Agent Ryan nodded. "True. Anyone, should I say, recent? Any executive you fired? Any corporate toes you tread on? This could just a random snatch. People know you have money, and a son, and that's enough for most kidnappers. They could be terrorists, just looking for some cash, but I don't think so."

"If so, they would have asked for cash," Bart concluded. "And not a majority stake in Bass Industries."

"Correct. So, Mr. Bass, if you can think of anyone…?"

Bart pinched the bridge of his nose. "A project on the Hudson was aborted last June. The recession has meant cutbacks, even in Bass Industries. The plan was to convert old warehouses into various amenities, loft apartments, bars, a mall, a theatre. It was quite large-scale."

Agent Ryan nodded. "How many men were let go?"

"Over one thousand."

"And who was to head up this project?"

Bart had stood up abruptly. "If you'll excuse me," he had said down to Agent Ryan, straightening his tie. "I have to call my brother. Someone has to run Bass Industries."

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

Harold found her in Blair's room, still her pyjamas, clutching their daughter's pillow, trying to fill the empty space. Eleanor couldn't meet his eyes. What would he say if he knew she could not remember the last time she held her daughter? The last time she said _I love you_, or even goodnight? When was the last time she stood in the doorway, watching her baby sleep? She used to come in and lie down beside her, listening to her dreams, watching her chest rise and fall, watching her live, right up close. Blair didn't know; she was always gone come morning, busy with work, and just busy. But no mother should be too busy to spend time with her daughter. Eleanor could see that now, now that everything was gone.

Harold sat down beside her. "What are you doing, darling?"

She glanced at the clock. It had stopped.

"Waiting for a miracle."

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

Dan was in shock. He had never liked Blair, and Chuck even less so, but only a Dementor could not feel for the two of them right now. Serena had told him everything when he had taken her on a walk around Central Park. He had wanted to get her out of the apartment, away from the chaos: cops, zombie parents and the ghosts of her step-brother and best friend. They had stopped for ice-cream at the Baskin-Robbins cart even though it was January. Serena chose Oreo Cookies n' Cream instead of her usual mint chocolate chip. Perplexed, he had asked way.

Her eyes teared up and she said that it was Blair's favourite flavour.

Dan walked her to Nate's house, supporting her all the way. He would have preferred she stay with him and was reluctant to leave her with Nate – with any other boy, really, but especially this one, for obvious reasons – but it didn't take a genius to see that Nate was the best option. The four of them were in this together, Nate and Serena, Blair and Chuck. Dan was a newcomer, an outsider, a passing phase.

But he didn't mind. He had Vanessa, whom Dan suddenly remembered he needed to entertain. "Sorry. Vanessa. I – er – I was just thinking."

Vanessa nodded in understanding. "About what?"

"Uh. Everything. I didn't ever think I'd feel sorry for Chuck Bass."

"Why?" Jenny was standing in the doorway, school bag in hand, looking more than grumpy. "What happened?"

Dan blinked. "Didn't Eric tell you? Aren't you two like, joined at the hip or something?"

"He wasn't at school, hasn't been for days," Jenny replied, a touch cold. "And now he isn't answering my calls."

"Neither is Serena," Dan grimaced. "And she's with Nate Archibald." Vanessa gave his hand a comforting squeeze. He smiled at her, a little confused, surprised, but willing to go with the flow. Any human contact was good right now.

"Dan." Jenny snapped her fingers. "Tell me. What happened?"

Dan gave his sister a level look. "Are you going to tip off Gossip Girl? Because that, Jen, would be totally not cool."

"Cross my heart," she swore, enacting the routine, "Swear to die, stick a needle in my eye, may rats gnaw them out if I'm telling a lie. Now spill."

When the words came out of Dan's mouth he thought he was going to throw up. One of his nails still bore the glitter polish Serena had inflicted on him out of boredom. It was chipped, and growing more so every day.

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

It was nearing two AM, but Lily could not sleep. She had insisted Bart take three Valium, and now he slept in Chuck's bed. She was envious, but she could see the strain her fiancé was under. Not only had his only son been kidnapped and hurt, but she knew Bart was damning himself for every second he cursed Charles, chose business over family, found a kind word too difficult to utter. She knew this because she felt it, too. She felt a sudden urge to clutch Serena and Eric to her, to hold her babies and never let them go. If they were taken from her, she would cease to be.

The police clattered away, muttering in low, respectful voices. The stink of coffee and ink was overwhelming. Serena was with Nate, and Jenny had called by for Eric, something about a new Jake Gyllenhaal movie. Rufus sent over a spaghetti casserole with her, but it lay untouched. Eating was unthinkable. Lily eased her way over to one of the many collapsible tables and poured coffee into a Styrofoam cup. It smelled awful, but it was hot and strong.

"Mrs. Bass?"

"Yes?" she replied wearily. Agent Ryan looked battered, his blonde hair washed out and limp. "Any news?"

"The blood on the wall, ma'am. It's his. Chuck's."

Lily nodded. "Thank you, Agent. Should I wake Bart?"

Agent Ryan shrugged. "Personally– " _Poisinilly_ " –I wouldn't. That's all I have, for now. Let the man be. He's one of the worst I've seen, and I can tell ya, I've been around the block a few times." He made a move for coffee, and Lily poured it for him.

"How do you do it?" she asked, handing him the steaming cup. "Over and over?"

He emptied in packet after packet of sugar. "Someone's got to. Puts food on the table. End of. I've got kids, too, Mrs. Bass. Two beautiful girls. And God help me, I don't know what I'd do if some fucker laid a hand on one of my babies."

"Thank you," Lily said softly.

Teddy Ryan's green eyes were rock hard. "I'll get him back for you, ma'am, Gawd as my witness."

Her eyes drifted towards the room where Bart slept. "You have to."

The elevator pinged open. She didn't bother looking, cupping her coffee with both hands, staring into the blackness as if the answer was hidden somewhere down there, with the grains and insoluble sugar.

Rapid footsteps followed by a boisterous, "Lily!"

"Jack?"

"Lily, Lily, Lily," he drawled in his hard twang, New Yoik and Australia, his blue eyes drinking her in as he kissed her hand. "It's been far too long."

"Not long enough, Jack," Lily replied with the ghost of a smile. Jack, the handsome devil. Bart had introduced his fiancé to his younger brother when Lily accompanied him on a trip to Sydney and she liked him, but only trusted him about as far as she could throw him.

"Where's my older brother?" Jack asked, taking a heavy gulp of Lily's coffee, smacking his lips.

On cue, Bart came strolling out of the bedroom, fully dressed, eyes like steel. "Jack," he barked.

Lily watched as the brothers enacted a rigid embrace. "I came as soon as you called. Never fear, brother, the miracle has arrived," Jack said, clapping Bart on the back. He looked around, grinning as only Jack could grin at a time like this. "And what in the hell happened to this place? It's like the zoo!" He laughed.

"Charles has been kidnapped, Jack," Lily explained slowly. "They sent us his fingernails. In a matchbox." In her peripheral vision, she saw Bart flinch at the words.

Jack whistled, and winked. "Be thankful they weren't his fingers. Now that'd be one fucking mess, right?"

* * *

OK! I'm sorry! No Chair! Though I can swear, from now on in, everything will have our favourite dysfunctional duo, I thought we needed a break, you know, a pit stop. To digest all that CB goodness. So consider this the sorbet before the main course comes out. That's right – you ain't seen NUTHIN' yet. Except Uncle Jack ... BANG! :O

Anyhoo, REVIEWS, as always, are love. In fact, they're how we say those three words in Irish. So get in touch with your inner Irishman (and EVERYONE has an inner Irishman. It's that little voice that says, 'Ah sure fuck 'em. Burn it all! ... And then we'll go for a pint') and REVEIW!

Love you all, and thanks, Plonksie


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N:** OMG! I'm not sure if people realised, I only did, like, two seconds ago, but in the Yale episode – when they all go up there (2.06, I think?) – the instrumental in the background, at the Dean's shindig, the violins: IT'S MUSE?!?! _TIME IS RUNNING OUT__!!?!?_ Like, ARGH!?! Going to see them at Oxigen this summer (for, like, the fifth time) and duly excited.

_Disclaimer: honestly? If _I_ owned Chuck Bass, do you think he would wear bowties? Or, like, ANYTHING?_

REVIEWS – I think we've established that you peeps are MY LIFE over the course of the past nine chapter (ARGH! THIS IS CHAPTER TEN!) but let's share the love one more time, kk? _polarblairbear _& _mrsblairbass _& _voguelover1996 _& _Maddtown _& _LuLuLG _& _ana-12 _& _Ellie _&_ IcingTheCake _& _Ingridmarie _& _mrschuckbassx3 _& _Kate2008 _& _HnM skinnys _& _Fancy Piece of Work _& _egbert13 _& _Cathybronte _& _VanillaCokeQueen _&_ BassKingdom _& _schizoOntheDancefloor _& _ggloverxx19 _& _Luv2Laff _& _MrsCullen-Bass _& _Princess Persephone _& _:D _& _ggff-fan _& _itsoglatime _& _ilovecujo1993 _& _rose _& _CheeseSwiss _& _odyjha _& _Melissa _& _BrittyKay247 _& _MizMizMi _&_ 3Words8letterssayit&I'myours _& _Krazy4Spike _&_ ronan03 _& _pandagirl1001 _& _dreamgurl _& _Killer Newton _

And to my Beta, Titania, girl, I love you so much I might even THINK about giving you my Blink-182 tickets. And, as Led Zepplin say, that's a WHOLE LOTTA LOVE

**

* * *

STOCKHOLM SYNDROME**

**  
Chapter Ten**

_  
Is it getting better or do you feel the same?  
Will it make it easier on you now,  
You got someone to blame?  
Did I disappoint you,  
Leave a bad taste in your mouth?  
You act like you never had love  
And you want me to go without  
Well it's too late tonight  
To drag the past out into the light  
Did I ask too much, more than a lot?  
You gave me nothing now it's all I got  
We're one but we're not the same  
Well we hurt each other  
Then we do it again  
You ask me to enter  
But then you make me crawl  
And I can't be holding on  
To what you got  
When all you got is hurt  
One love, but we're not the same  
We have to carry each other,  
Carry each other  
One  
_'One' – U2

A weak, white sun filtered in through the dirty window, the kind that sends a shaft of the clearest light and illuminates the hovering dust. They sat by the radiator, first aid kit open at their feet, last night locked away somewhere dark and deep. There was silence, but it drifted lazily like the dust, basking in the sunlight and not shirking from it. Chuck kept his head down as Blair re-dressed his fingers. She could feel him shaking with the effort to hold everything inside. She gave his knee a squeeze, not wanting to break the silence.

He looked up. His lip was bleeding again. Blair reached, and wiped it away. "Breakfast, I think," she said, wrapping up the last wound. They were, if possible, worse than last night, but she forced them away into the box as well. Chuck sat back and went almost floppy. His head was titled back and his breathing was too shallow, his eyes jammed shut. This was the time when people broke, and drank, or smoke, or shot heroin into their toes – whatever they did to escape. Blair could only offer cheap candy and herself. "Here," she said, throwing him two of the bars her friend had gifted her in the 7-11 bag. She called him her friend, because there was nothing else. It wasn't Stockholm syndrome.

She rolled up the bandages, repacking the kit before she opened her own candy. It was plain chocolate this time, and she could only nibble at the edges, sick to death of sweets. "I would kill for a grapefruit right now," she declared to the dust, waving the bar. She wanted to see him smile. He looked so wasted, and not in the drunk sense. "I would gladly beat someone to death with this candy bar if it meant citrus."

Chuck gave her a lame smile and his eyes drifted closed. The sun lit up his face. He was white.

"Eat, Chuck," Blair pressed gently. "You have to eat."

"Pot kettle black," he muttered flatly.

Blair scowled. "Eat. Or else."

"You'll bludgeon me to death with that Twix?"

"This is a Hershey."

Chuck made a gagging sound. Blair rolled her eyes. "Please, Chuck. For me. You're so pale."

He looked at her, his eyes dark, and then grabbed the bar. He didn't say _fine_, he didn't stamp his foot, but Blair knew that was only because he couldn't be bothered – or because he didn't have the energy. She watched, not seeing, as he struggled with the candy wrapper.

"Here," she said quickly, almost laughing as his blunt fingers scrabbled against the slick plastic. "Let me." She went to take the candy, but he yanked it free of her helpful hand, turning aside altogether.

Blair stared.

"Chuck, I– "

"I'm not. Fucking. Handicapped."

The sunlight turned into a spotlight, and Blair felt herself blotch scarlet. She cursed herself for being so tactless. "I'm sorry. I just saw you– "

He spat venomously, "Yeah? Well you saw wrong."

"I'm here to help, Chuck. I'm not the bad gu– "

"I DON'T NEED YOUR FUCKING HELP!"

Chuck tore open the candy bar with his teeth and flung it, with all his strength at the wall. Blair had never seen chocolate splinter before. She broke off half of hers and laid it down beside him. A peace offering? A plea?

"Please," she said, hanging her head for shame.

Chuck turned the other cheek. His shiner was turning yellow. Blair knew she must look equally attractive.

"I don't need your pity." His voice was too quiet now. She preferred it when he shouted.

"It's not pity, Chuck," she said flatly, too tired to fight. "It's food."

"I'll eat when I'm hungry, Mother."

He said 'mother' like it was the ugliest word in the world.

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

There was pain, and it was constant. His fingers felt like they were being held in a furnace, and he had nothing, no pills, no alcohol, nothing with which to douse the flame. He doubted the first aid kit contained medication, and he was certainly not about to confess the pain to Blair. Chuck was a silent sufferer, always had been. It was skill he had perfected to such an extent over the years that now detection was rare, and he was left to stew in peace. The way he liked it.

Or _had_ liked it, until she came along and shot him full of morphine. Blair was a drug, and he was the world's worst addict. She would kill him one day, he knew it, maybe even with her bare hands. He couldn't blame her. Perhaps his father would even send her roses.

Chuck tipped his head back against the hot metal. The sun was high in the sky and such a dazzling white that it burned his eyes just to look at it. He closed them, not that it made much of a difference; the light leaked in through regardless. It hurt, but he didn't move. The sun's cool caress proved that life went on.

He couldn't lie. He had thought, last night, maybe. Chuck remembered thinking of Blair, Blair in the moonlight, and how their combined beauty was enough to compensate for all the wonders he would never see. But it was morning now, and he was still here.

Blair sat across the room, watching him. He could feel her eyes on him like an X-ray. She acted like he was this china doll, just one puff of wind and he would fall and shatter. He could take care of himself. Hadn't he just proved that? Proved his strength and worth, proved he cared about her more than Nate ever did. The only thing Nate had sacrificed for her were Knicks tickets, and they were hardly courtside.

He was suddenly furious. There was all this anger, and there wasn't enough space in his body to contain it. He wanted to yell out loud and break precious things, but Basses did not throw temper tantrums.

The pressure was building up in Chuck's jaw. His teeth ached. There was a jack-hammer inside his skull and the pain echoed off his skull, reverberating, magnifying into something that made his stomach somersault ominously. And it was all her fault. She, who sat up on her high horse beside the door, her legs crossed, looking so fucking holier than thou, when her tongue was black as hell. He should know. Blair Waldorf was as filthy as he was. Only dirt never stuck to her ... Or, it hadn't until recently.

But revenge had not given him the satisfaction he craved; it did not stop the sinkhole she had created when she left his arms for Nate's.

His hands hurt. As experienced as he was with internal torment, Chuck had little practice in dealing with physical pain. Little things, like black eyes and bitch slaps, they were part and parcel, but anything exceeding a graze – from broken wrists to large, inexplicable bumps to the head – were treated instantly, by professionals: doctors or drink. The worst he had ever endured was impaling his foot on a stray nail when Bart took him around a constructive site. His father had dismissed him, as if he had purposely planted the nail and then stamped down hard on it, just to inconvenience Bart Bass. He rode with his son in the ambulance like it was some huge chore, and Chuck had not uttered a single cry, even though he could see the point of the nail poking up through his flesh. By the time he got home, Bart had left for a month long tour of South-East Asia, Australia and China, without leaving so much as a note. He didn't call for another four days, and seemed to have forgotten the incident completely. He was seven.

Chuck hadn't; his hands hurt from using crutches. But that, all of it, nail included, was incomparable - a paper cut. His hands hurt now, like someone had locked his fingertips in a vat of liquid nitrogen.

He wanted to cry.

"Turn around, Bass." Blair had straightened up, empty Volvic bottle in hand. "Please. I need to pee."

He was grudgingly impressed at the speed with which she had adapted to her new toilet facilities. But that didn't mean he had to oblige her.

"Chuck. Turn around, please," she repeated, a little more than impatient, waving the empty bottle.

"No."

"Excuse me."

Chuck would have picked imaginary dirt from beneath his nails, had he had nails. "You're excused."

Blair stared at him, her face scrunching up in odd little full-face frowns. To him, she seemed thrown by his sudden acridity, perplexed and a little disgusted. As if his motives were so common.

"Look. Bass." She was using her Caesar voice. "I want to go to the toilet. And I don't want you watching. So I want you to turn around. Right now."

Chuck yawned widely and obviously. "Unfortunately, Waldorf, the world doesn't revolve around what you want."

Blair's face took on an ugly look. She looked like she'd bitten into the sourest lemon. "Of course," she replied, all prim and tight. He could have wrung the sarcasm from her words like a wet tea-towel. "How could I forget? It revolves around you."

His lip curled, and Blair sneered like a man.

"Because everything is about you, isn't? Chuck, Chuck, Chuck, morning, noon and night. 'Why are we here?' – 'I'm Chuck Bass'. " She made a parody of herself, and in doing so, reduced him. "'Why do they want us?' – 'I'm Chuck Bass'. 'Why did they pull out your fingernails?' – 'I'm Chuck Bass'." 'Why am I too insecure to accept that anyone might actually _want _to help me?'" Her voice was getting steadily higher and higher, and her eyes blazed like he had never seen them. She was a goddess, but he was Hades, Lord of the Underworld. "'Why do I push everybody away?' – 'I'm Chuck Bass'. 'Why can't I see that not everyone has a sick ulterior motive like I do, and that they might actually being helping me because they _care?_' – 'I'm Chuck Bass'. 'Why am I such an insufferable jackass?' – 'I'm Chuck Bass'. 'Why does everybody I know hate my pathetic guts?' – Oh, wait no, let me guess. You're Chuck Bass."

She spat at the ground at his feet. "That's what I think of Chuck Bass."

He watched her spit soak dark across the ruined carpet, mixing in with his blood.

Chuck raised his head and looked up at her. He was smiling, he couldn't help it. She was just too much. He cocked his head to one side, watching her, fighting the laughter. The pain in his hands was building. He didn't care, he didn't care about anything.

"You think this is funny?" she seethed. "Do you?"

He chuckled. "You're a riot, Waldorf," he murmured. "I'm glad I have you around lest I die of boredom. You're like a wind-up doll." He crossed his legs, leaning back and giving his hand a lazy flick. "Continue."

Chuck saw the welts his words raised on her white skin, turning it angry and red.

"Is that what you think of me? A game? Something to keep you amused?"

"You're Nate's girlfriend," he drawled, unleashing the monster. "What, did you delude yourself that I would actually _love_ someone like you? Like you said. I'm Chuck Bass."

She deflated like a popped balloon. Everything rushed out then there was only an empty shell lying on the floor. Chuck forced himself to watch. He felt like a plug had been ripped up somewhere inside his chest, and everything was being sucked away, down the drain.

Blair's eyes glistened. "I should have known."

"Glad we're on the same page, princess."

"Don't call me that."

"I'll call you what I want."

"You're Chuck Bass." She said his name like it meant nothing and everything. And then her face contorted into a feral mask and, crazed like a whirlwind, she swirled around, picking up the empty bottle and hurling it at his head.

It struck his left shoulder, just above his heart.

Chuck gaped at her. He opened his mouth, but she got there first. She didn't yell or scream. Blair heaved a sigh, and held up a hand. "Just shut up, Chuck, okay? No one gives a fuck what you have to say. Don't you get it? People only listen because your dad's Bart Bass. And it's clear just how much he cares. I know, because my mother is the same. And I thought we had something, I thought we had a bond. But I guess I was wrong. I guess I momentarily forget that you were Chuck fucking Bass. And I think you did, too. And I liked that boy, I'll admit it. Quote me, and I won't deny it. He made me forget I was Blair Waldorf, always coming in second place when it counted. He made me forget Serena and Nate and my parents. But then I screwed up, I know that. I hurt him, and I'm sorry. I wish I could go back and change it, but I can't. And I need you to see that, Chuck. Because I can't do this any longer. I'm too tired to fight. It hurts. My head hurts and my throat hurt."

She was crying. Her hands pressed against her heart. "And _I_ hurt."

"Oh. You hurt, do you?" Chuck's voice was thin and light like steam; steam leaves the worst burns. "You _hurt_. Jesus Fucking Christ. Let me get my violin because I care that much. You have no idea what pain is. You just sit in here, bitching about Serena and your mother and Nate and what a fucking shitpile your life is – _while I'm out there having my fingernails ripped out by some ex-IRA psychopath!_" He smashed his fist against the wall and the ensuing spasm of pain brought tears to his eyes. Or, at least, he blamed them on the pain. "Don't tell me you're sick of fighting because I'm just getting warmed up. It's time to rejoin reality. You're only alive right now because of me. You're not a Park Avenue Princess here, you're _nothing_."

"At least I'm not Chuck Bass," Blair said acidly.

"Thank your lucky stars. It's better to be a two-timing, backstabbing bulimic little whore here than be me."

Blair closed her eyes. "Why are you saying this?" She barely whispered, but her voice filled the tiny room, echoing, making it smaller. It stripped back the plaster and revealed the bars of their own private cage. "Why are you making this so hard? I'm sorry, Chuck, I can't say it again. And I noticed you haven't even said it once ... But I can live with that."

Slowly, she stumbled to her feet, and shuffled to the window. The dusk light framed her, and she looked like an angel. Her fingers gripped the sill for support. "I can raise the white flag," she said. "So please. Stop. I know we're in trouble, I know what's going on. I know I'm expendable. And I know what you did last night. And I know that you hate me right now. But we're in this together, Chuck. Whether you like it or not."

It took a tremendous effort to let everything go. To try a little tenderness. "I do."

"You do what?" Blair mumbled, not looking.

"I do like it."

And she looked at him like she had never, not ever, looked at Nate.

* * *

And Chair are back! Maybe we should get some Thin Lizzy playing, you know, _the boys are back in town_ – no? crash and burn? Oh well. Really hoped you enjoyed this, those of you who missed our favourite gruesome twosome last chapter. REVIEWS – you the drill – ARE LOVE! Positive or negative, I'll take any and all feedback coming.

Thanks, Plonksie


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: **okay, gotta make this brief, because dinner is getting cold. 1) don't own GG 2) LOVE ALL MY REVIEWERS WITH A BURNING PASSION OF LOVE 3) love my Beta TATIANA equally flammably (_flammably?_ Is that even a word? LOL) 4) personally, as the show goes, I think Blair should get funky with Dan, to make Chuck jealous, and than Chuck and Jenny can be bitches together, and Nate will ditch Serena, who'll go back to Carter so I can drool over Seb, and, obv, Blair will totally bitch fight with Jenny over Chuck and everything will end happily ever after

**

* * *

STOCKHOLM SYNDROME  
**

**Chapter Eleven  
**

_If you want a boxer  
I will step into the ring for you  
And if you want a doctor  
I'll examine every inch of you  
If you want a partner, take my hand  
Or if you want to strike me down in anger  
Here I stand  
I'm your man  
_'I'm Your Man' – Leonard Cohen

xoxo

"I'm bored." It was the first time she had actually uttered the words, and the first time she needed to. Being angry and upset over Chuck had taken up her time, energy and mental faculties. Now that she was free from those feelings, Blair was most definitely bored. Scared, yes, but also bored. Chuck dozed fitfully in the pink morning blush, and she prodded his shoulder. "Chuck. I'm bored."

Chuck mumbled something indiscernible.

"What?"

"I said, go fuck yourself."

"No, seriously, Chuck."

"I was being serious." He rolled off his side onto his stomach, jaded but grinning. "Can't you tell?"

"Eww."

He lay his head down on his arms and closed his eyes again. He was sleeping a lot, which disturbed Blair. She knew he must be exhausted, drained physically and emotionally, but wasn't this a little excessive? Maybe he was concussed. She poked him again, more insistent this time. "Chuck!"

She pulled his hair. He swotted at her hand.

Chuck's head snapped up. "What?" There were vast dark smudges under his eyes. "What, Blair?"

"I'm bored."

"So you've said."

"So unbore me."

Chuck yawned. "I'm too tired." Not too tired to smirk, though. Blair stuck out her tongue.

"We're going to play a game," she dictated.

"I love it when you talk dirty," Chuck murmured.

She pretended that didn't make goosebumps erupt all over her body.

"I went to the shop," Blair said loudly, "and I bought an Armani clutch."

Chuck rolled onto his back and flopped his hands up over his eyes, shielding them from the light. "I went to the shop and bought an Armani clutch and a box."

"A box of what?"

"Does it matter?" Chuck groaned. "A box. Your turn."

Blair tossed her head over her shoulder. "Fine. I went to the shop and bought an Armani clutch, a _box_ and a cashmere sweater."

"I went to the shop and bought an Armani clutch, a box, a cashmere sweater and," Chuck paused to think, yawning more widely than before, "a dildo."

Blair snorted with laughter. "A dildo?"

"An Armani clutch, a box, a cashmere sweater _and_ a dildo," Chuck corrected smugly.

"I went to the shop and bought an Armani clutch, a box, a cashmere sweater, a dildo and an ..." Blair giggled, "An ejaculation."

Chuck stared at her, eyebrows raised. "You can't buy an ejaculation, Waldorf."

"Because you've tried."

"Homosexual prostitutes aren't a regular fixture in my shopping cart, no."

Blair clapped a hand over her mouth, gasping. "But then who taught you how to dress?"

"Are you implying my fashion sense is– "

"Gay? As Christmas."

"I went to the shop and bought an Armani clutch, a box, a cashmere sweater, a dildo, an– " He paused to glare at her, though he wasn't trying very hard, " –ejaculation and a fireman's pole."

Blair smiled. "I went to the shop and bought an Armani clutch, a box, a cashmere sweater, a dildo, an ejaculation, a fireman's pole and a Gucci ... shawl."

"You can't use the brand name as your letter," Chuck objected, rising.

"Well then I won't be buying much," Blair replied. "Everyone knows that if something is worth buying, it will be signature – Why else does plebeian couture not carry names? Because nobody wants to claim it."

Chuck groaned and slunk back to the floor. "I went to the shop and bought an Armani clutch, a box, a cashmere sweater, a dildo, an ejaculation, a fireman's pole, a Gucci shawl and a hat. And don't ask what kind. It's a hat."

Blair wrinkled her nose. "That's like something Nate would say. It's only a hat, when it's clearly a Stella McCartney exclusive."

There wasn't even a pause after the mention of Nate's name. It didn't seem to have registered with Chuck at all. "I went to the shop," he said, lying in her lap, "and bought an Armani clutch, a box, a cashmere sweater, a dildo, an ejaculation, a fireman's pole and a Gucci shawl, a hat and an igloo."

She stroked his hair back from his forehead. Outside the window, everything was bathed in pink and grey. "I went to the shop and – Wait! No! You stole my turn!"

"Too bad. I want an igloo."

"Well you can't have one. It's my turn, and I want ice-cream."

"And I want my fingernails back but, newsflash Waldorf, you can't always get what you want."

There was a pregnant pause, and then, "I can't believe you brought the Rolling Stones into this," Blair deadpanned.

Chuck smirked, twisting to look up at her. "I thought it was time we enlisted the big guns."

"I wonder if Versace does bulletproof vests," Blair pondered, scratching her chin. She was sure Michelle Obama didn't wear any old FBI hand-me-down. Absently, she intertwined her fingers in Chuck's.

He kissed her hand. "I'm your bulletproof vest." And then he kissed her lips.

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

Dinner was a subdued affair. Harold drank two bottles of 1989 Côtes du Rhône and began to cry into the Daniel Brulee black forest gateau Lily had brought. Bart and Eleanor weren't talking. Serena, Eric and Nate – who now seemed a constant fixture, not that Lily was complaining – whispered at the end of the table. Serena's plate was almost untouched. Lily touched her hand, really having to reach because they were sitting further apart than was normal; no one wanted to see empty chairs, so Dorota had subtly stretched out the placemats. Jack, of course, had then pulled up a vacant one and was using it for his feet. No one had the heart to tell him to behave, not today.

"Serena, honey," Lily began. "Eat something."

Serena shook her head. "I can't, Mom. Don't ask me to. I feel so guilty."

"Serena– "

"I'll eat it," Nate offered quickly, "We'll share." And the situation was diffused. Lily caught Bart's eyes. He was staring at Nate, anger and shame in his hard blue orbs.

"He's only trying to help," she murmured. "He's been there for Serena and Eric. Chuck was his best friend."

However subtly, Bart recoiled as though slapped, and it took Lily a moment to realise her mistake.

She didn't correct herself, just moved on. "Agent Ryan told me, just before we left, that they've located the bike messenger who delivered the original ransom note, and that his statement corroborates with this morning's one."

The details had arrived, typed neatly. They were very simple: sign on the dotted line, and we'll pick up the day after tomorrow. And we'll bring the boy. We'll keep the girl until the deal goes through, for insurance. Bart had wanted to persuade them to release Blair first, and Chuck later, a gesture to Eleanor and Harold, but there was no telephone number, no email address, no postal box – nothing to contact the kidnappers by to negotiate. This wasn't a Hollywood movie where they talked on the phone using synthesised voices that sounded like the Terminator. This was a business deal, and it meant manila envelopes and express delivery.

Bart had spoken to the board. They were sympathetic, and encouraged him not to issue a press release, lest their stocks suffer. He had agreed, intending to keep it private anyway. But after the Waldorfs' statement, it was easy for the media to put two and two together, thanks to some inane teenage site called _Gossip Girl–_

_There's good news and there's bad news, Upper East Side. B's parents told the press this morning that B had been kidnapped. Bass Senior hasn't opened his mouth, but I'm sure you can put two and two together and get Chuck. And the bad news: Lonely Boy and Nate Archibald spotted get steamy in chemistry today – and I don't mean Brokeback Mountain. Sparks flew when a Bunsen burner accidently took a tumble onto N's project binder. It's your move, S, don't keep us in suspense._

_You know you love me,_

_XOXO, Gossip Girl_

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

It was well past midnight, and Nate and Serena were watching a moviein Blair's room. Bart and Lily had left shortly after dinner, and Blair's parents dispersed just as quickly, leaving the three teenagers to fend for themselves. Jenny dropped by for Eric and handed Serena a plastic bag from Dan. It lay on Blair's bed unopened as Nate went to insert the DVD.

_Breakfast At Tiffany's _was in the drive. Quickly, he took it out and put it face down. Blair had made him watch it countless times and, much as he was ashamed to admit it, it had short of grown on him over the years. It his mind, _Breakfast At Tiffany's _meant Blair. Nate roughly wiped his eyes. He wasn't crying, there was just a lot of dust in the room.

Because it hadn't been slept in for eight days.

Eight days? Nate straightened up and pressed play. It seemed like eight years.

"What's in the bag?" He asked, sitting down beside Serena. She was wearing one of Blair's old Yale sweatshirts. Nate remembered it was so big, it made Blair look tiny in comparison. She loved it. Serena absently pulled on a stray thread in the cuff.

"I don't know."

"Then maybe you should open it," Nate prompted. He wanted to see what Dan had packed, even if Serena didn't. Serena nodded, and propped herself up on her elbow, smiling a little.

"Yeah, good idea. Help?"

Nate grinned. "Sure."

They went at it together, pulling out several packages haphazardly wrapped in dimestore Christmas wrapping paper. Serena had to smile; it was so Dan. She unwrapped candy and a book. She leafed through it while Nate fought against the Sellotape cocoon imprisoning the final, bigger and lumpier, gift. Dan had inserted several Polaroids inside the cover, and biroed a note.

_Fiction is real life with the toilet breaks left out. In this book, they find the girl and kill the bastards.  
Here for you, Dan._

The pictures were of them, eating Pizza at the loft, watching _Men In Black _and finishing a maths assignment. And kissing. Serena went through them again and again, but she couldn't recognise the bold girl in the picture. She looked so light, so carefree, so happy.

"That's a great picture of you," Nate said admiringly. "Scan it up onto Facebook."

Serena blinked. It was a picture of _her_?

She slipped them back inside the book, _Gone Baby Gone_, and hid the book under Blair's pillows. She couldn't look at them now. It felt like a betrayal of Blair. So instead she looked at Nate and his frown as he tried, unsuccessfully, to open Dan's parcel.

"Use your teeth," Serena suggested. Nate did as he was told and out fell Cedric. Serena let out a soft 'Oh,' and Nate swore under his breath. Humphrey was smarter than he looked.

Serena clutched the old doll to her and pressed the remote, turning on the television. "What are we watching?" she asked.

"_Man On Fire_," Nate replied, scanning the back of the box. "It's set in Mexico. Basically Denzel Washington goes apeshit after the girl he's guarding is taken."

"And he gets her back, right?"

Nate nodded. He had read the spoilers on IMBD. He had know what happened, and it had to be a happy ending.

Serena cuddled Cedric closer. "That's good."

"Based on a true story," Nate added quickly.

"Even better."

So far they had seen _Along Came A Spider_, _The Rescuers_, _Ransom_,_ Taken_, _The Missing – _anything that had a kidnapping and a happy ending. Everything else just felt wrong. How could they laugh at a comedy, cry at a sad romance, or watch people get hurt or shot? Nate hated Sci-Fi. This world was messed up enough without adding on second and third dimensions and aliens and magic. Magic didn't exist.

They watched, popcorn-free, as Denzel Washington kicked some kidnapper ass while Christopher Walken said cool, meaningful things, and for the first time in his life Nate wished he owned a gun. Chuck had rescued him from Carter Baizen; he owed him. He owed his best friend.

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

Blair woke up with the biggest kink in her neck. She had fallen asleep sitting up, with Chuck lying in her lap, and her back ached from leaning against the wall all night. She made to stretch out the cricks, but collapsed inwards with a yelp, and shook herself instead. Her throat was parched. She touched her lips: they felt puffy, probably from dehydration. And kissing. Blair felt warm all over with the memory. It had only been a tiny thing, just a kiss, just a moment. But last night, it had lasted years.

She looked down at her sleeping boy. Blair didn't want to wake him just yet, and instead reached for his hand, intending to simply hold it.

Chuck's hand was cold and clammy.

Blair was scared. She pressed his wrist for a pulse, but could detect nothing beneath the sticky skin. She felt for a pulse point at his throat, worried. "Chuck, Chuck," she muttered. "Chuck. Wake up. Wake up, Chuck." After frantic searching, she located a dull throb in his carotid artery and released the breath she did not realise she had been holding. Not really wanting to, she took a closer look at his face. He was paler still, and his cheeks were hollow and grey-tinged. His hair was slicked to his forehead with sweat. Slowly, shaking, Blair went to push his hair back.

His hand was icy, but Chuck's forehead was burning.

* * *

Well? Reviews, as you know, are like pizza. You can never have too much, especially if there's cheese. And there's ALWAYS cheese with pizza, soooo ... Yeah. About 180 people have this Alert/Favourite. Really? If you can add it to your Favourites, you can review. Even just to complain about my taste in revenge movies.

Thanks, Plonksie


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: **just off to school, so consider yourselves LUCKY that this is going up! **1)** not mine **2) **REVIEWS were AWESOME and I LOVE you ALL, have a HUG on ME **3) **my Beta, Tatiana, is my GOD **4) **TOLD YOU SO, Chuck and Jenny, working together – only they're being a little _too_ good for my liking ;)

**

* * *

STOCKHOLM SYNDROME**

**Chapter Twelve**

_He is young, he's afraid  
Let him rest, Heaven blessed  
Bring him home, bring him home,  
Bring him home.  
Bring him peace, bring him joy  
He is young, he is only a boy  
You can take, you can give  
Let him be, let him live  
Bring him home  
_'Bring Him Home', from _Les Miserables_

xoxo_  
_

Quite possibly for the first time in her life, Blair Waldorf did not know what do. She was no doctor; she didn't even watch _Grey's Anatomy_. It didn't take a professional to see that Chuck was clearly in the danger zone, but it took one to do something about it. And so she panicked.

Frenzied, she shook him, first gently, eventually shouting his name, slapping his face. Chuck's eyes flickered beneath their lids but did not open, and his head lolled from side to side. Though not a doctor, Blair was no fool. A fever was induced when the body was fighting infection, and the source of infection, in Chuck's case, was obvious. Blair sat very still, taking deep breaths, forcing herself to be calm, for his sake. Slowly, she gathered the necessary supplies for her task: water, blankets, the dwindling first aid kit and a packet of peanut M&Ms.

"Chuck," she whispered, getting down low beside him. She stroked his forehead. "Chuck. Please. Open your eyes. Chuck, talk to me, tell me what's wrong."

Nothing.

She picked up his hand. She braced herself. The bandage wrapped around his little finger came away easier than she expected, a foreboding sign. Already, Blair could smell the infection. The wound was bright red, swollen and shiny, and the crack at the nail-bed wept yellow. Blair closed her eyes.

It took everything she had to redress all ten fingers without vomiting. Chuck, still semi-conscious, had begun to struggle halfway through, crying out and pulling away, forcing her to hold him down while she doused his fingers in iodine. Not that she was thought it would do any good; it had proved pretty useless so far, even though she had been adamant on dressing the wounds twice daily. She had failed him again.

Chuck's head tossed feebly, his eyes scrunched up as if trying to dispel whatever nightmare plagued him. His hair was plastered to his head, which was covered in a sheen of sweat. Blair opened one of the larger cloth bandages and dampened it. Wringing out the excess water, she held it first his forehead, then his cheeks and neck. He struggled under her hand. His teeth were chattering slightly, as if he was cold, but his skin was on fire.

Curled like a cat beside him, she watched him breathe. It was a slow, rattling affair. Outside the window, a million miles away, the sun slithered across the sky.

"Chuck. Can you hear me?" She shook his shoulder, held his hand. "Chuck. Wake up. Wake up." She was Rose, trying to rouse Jack now that the boats had come. Tears welled up in her eyes. "Chuck."

He cried out, some high-pitched sound in the back of his throat that didn't belong there, and threw his head to the side, and her heart skipped a beat. She held the cloth to his face, a mother tending to her sick child. But as she cooled his forehead, and moved on to his cheek, the first place burned anew. He was getting steadily worse and Blair had never felt so utterly useless.

"Chuck, please."

Blair bent forward and laid a soft kiss on his forehead. "I'm going to fix this," she swore. "Promise. Just stay with me."

She hurried to the door on her knees, too rushed to even stand up, and began pounding mercilessly, not caring if it meant that four scary men with guns came running in and taking her away. She wasn't scared any more, at least not for herself.

"I need a doctor! I need a doctor! I know you're there, and I know you can hear me! He needs a doctor!" Blair yelled through the wood, louder than she had known she could. "I _need_ a _doctor! _Sombody!" Anybody! Help ... " And she dissolved into sobs, clinging to wall for support as her whole body shook. "Help me, please. Oh God, help me. Help."

But nobody answered, nobody came, and it wasn't fair.

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

Bart knew something was wrong. He could just feel it inside, like some tiny siren. Maybe it was on account of their shared DNA, but for once he doubted such a logical explanation could be applied. He gazed out the penthouse window, across the city – his city – and wondered if his son was there somewhere, calling for him. He laid his hand on the glass. He was Bart Bass, but he could do nothing.

Behind him, there were footsteps. Bart turned around to see Nathaniel shuffle across the floor, laden with last night's empty coffee cups. He was wearing something oddly familiar, the St. Jude's uniform. Only Bart distinctly remembered him arriving yesterday in a polo shirt.

"Is that ...?" He couldn't say it.

Nate nodded and Bart nodded back. The apartment had never been so full, yet so empty. It took Bart a while to fully register what he was feeling. Loss. He had been having the best dream and suddenly woke up. He only realised what he had after it was gone.

Too late.

Nate stood beside him and stared out at the sunset. "I wish I lived in an apartment where I can see this," he confessed, talking aimlessly. "It's pretty amazing." Across the Hudson, he could see Jersey and the rest of the world. "That's your place there, right?"

"Yes," Bart said tightly. He was impressed the boy remembered.

"You took us there once, I remember. It was the first time I saw a coffee machine. I pressed all the buttons at once. Was lucky not to end up in the burns unit."

Bart snorted with laughter. They stood, shoulder to shoulder, in amiable silence as the city glowed gold beneath them.

"I want him back, sir," Nate said gravely. He called Blair's dad Harold, sometimes even Dad, but Bart Bass was always 'sir'. "Nothing's the same. You have to bring him home."

Bart cleared his throat, his eyes fixed on Nate's equally blue ones. The boy was staring him down. He gave Nate a sad smile. "I want him, too."

He left out the 'back' on purpose.

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

They sat in the room, all four of them in the tiny space, listening to her scream: once through the headset, twice in real life. She was yelling for a doctor. The boy was lying on the floor, sometimes thrashing, sometimes too still. It was obvious he wasn't well, but they highly doubted it was life-threatening. And besides, he was only theirs for another twenty-six and a half hours. Tomorrow morning at twelve, it was farewell and adieu to you, Spanish lady.

Chelsea and Manchester were playing cards; Arsenal was reading _Lady Chatterley's Lover_; Liverpool, on watch duty, was glued to the screens, but his mind was elsewhere. What would his wife say if she knew this was where their next mortgage payment was coming from?

Last year, he had been a site manager in a high-flying construction company, with good pay and benefits, including comprehensive healthcare. His wife had a solid job as a kindergarten teacher. The pay was not as good, but she was happy and that was all that mattered. And last year, his little girl had succeeded in reaching remission. But now he worked in 7-11 and the only benefits bestowed upon him were free stale doughnuts at the end of the day. They had to pay their own health insurance, and, at times like these, those payments took precedent over the mortgage and car loans; they could not afford to not be covered should Rachel relapse. And if she did, Melissa would have to quit her job and their savings were already gone. They could not live on his paycheck. They just couldn't.

But then he had been offered this. Watch the kid for a few days, throw in some food and water, and Bob's your uncle, you've got yourself a hundred thousand dollars. One hundred thousand dollars. Liverpool didn't even know how many zeros were in that. He had said yes; he had to. Not for him, but for Rachel. And they weren't _hurting _the kid, just holding him.

Or that was what he had been told. Next thing he knew, that psycho from Belfast turned up with the boss and they started talking about welcome home gifts. He had seen the movies. _Man on Fire_, _Taken_, _Ransom_ – only this time Liam Neeson wasn't going to come bursting through the door and go Rambo on their asses. This time it wasn't all corn syrup and blank rounds – these were real people, and they were really hurting.

Liverpool seemed to have split in two over the past few days. One side yelled at him, demanding to know how in the Hell he could live with himself and why he didn't go straight to the cops. The other just said _Rachel_, _Rachel_, _Rachel_. And it was the latter side that always won. He was a father, and his child came first, no matter what. He was sure that these poor kids' fathers loved them just as much as he loved his baby girl.

"The _fuck_, man?"

Liverpool yanked down the earphones to see Manchester pull out a Glock and start cleaning it. "Boss said no guns," he said angrily. "What do you think you're doing, bub, bringing that thing here?"

Manchester raised a thick eyebrow. "Cleanin' it. Duh."

"Put it away," Liverpool ordered. "Now."

"Yeah, I'll do that. When I'm done cleanin' it."

Liverpool glared at Arsenal, the crazy-eyed Paddy, silently imploring him to intervene. The others might not respect him and his non-violent ways – they called him Grandpa Gandhi – but he knew they would listen to Arsenal. But he just sat there, reading fancy-pants porn.

"I'm just saying," he said, shaking his head, defeated. "I ain't happy."

"And I'm just sayin' I don't give a fuck."

Liverpool put back on the headphones. The girl was still at it, still yelling, though now very hoarse. Still pummelling away at the door. He couldn't take it. She was only a little girl. He bet she wanted to see her mom. And the boy. So what if he was rich and spoilt and related to Bart Bass? He couldn't help that. He was just a kid.

"Please." She was on her knees, sobbing against the door, great dry heaves that wrenched at his heart. "Ple-e-e-e-ease. He needs a doctor. Please."

This was bull.

Liverpool stood up and grabbed his cell.

Arsenal sat up straight as an arrow, inserting his bookmark. "And sure what do yeh think yeh're doig there now?" he asked quietly. "Yeh might want to be putting that down."

Liverpool, however terrified he was of the creep, squared his shoulders and acted like a man, for Rachel's sake, and for the kids in there. "I'm calling the boss," he declared. "And I'm telling him that we gotta do something and pronto, or else. That kid is obviously sick. And he ain't no use to us dead. So, yeah, calling that boss is what I'm doing."

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

It had been all his idea, to hell with the Board. It wouldn't even be his company this time tomorrow. He was Bart Bass, and Bart Bass did not sit around and do nothing. If there wasn't a way, he would make one. Lily supported the move, and Serena and Nathaniel begged to sit with him. "He's my brother," Serena had said. This had struck a chord with him, though he didn't let on. He and Lily were yet to be married, and any time he observed Serena and Charles together, he did not exactly detect vibes of undying devotion – but Bart also knew a lie when he heard one, and Serena was speaking the truth

It was rare thing that he spoke to the press. Being photographed was one thing, and very necessary for PR, but interviews were another – as for a press conference? Never. Bart had anticipated a full room, but what he walked out to exceeded his expectations to the grossest degree. He did not let it throw him; nothing threw Bart Bass. They seated themselves at the table: he, Serena, Nate and Jack. Someone said something about Mr. Bass reading his statement and then opening the floor.

His statement was fifty words long.

_If you're listening son, if you can see me, or hear me, know that I love you, and that I will bring you home. And to those who have taken him, heed me now: I will find you. And you will pay for what you have done to my son._

There was silence on the floor. Serena was crying, Nate's arm around her. And then Jack's cell rang. _Jumpin' Jack Flash. _He leaned across Bart, to the mic cluster, and said, "Sorry. Gotta take this. We love you, Chuck, and we'll kill the fuckers. Swear. Thanks."

* * *

Sorry, this chapter's a little boring, I know – but I PROMISE shit gets funkily close to that fan next time! REVIEWS are LOVE, they make me want WRITE FAST

Thanks, Plonksie


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N:** season 3 finale next week over here! Because I'm so wonderfully retarded, I was labouring under the delusion that LAST week's episode – _Ex-Husbands & Wives_ – was the last and when it ended I was like **WTfeckingF? **And I posted the most irrate Facebook status until my dear cousin in North Carolina was like, er, Meg – yeah, it ends NEXT week. And I was all like ... Oh. Oh right. Needless to say, the status was hastily updated.

**Disclaimer: **I own a calander full of pictures of naked farmers (it was a Christmas present, OKAY?) and not Gossip Girl. Clearly I have come up trumps in that deal

REVIEWS – Wow, you guys are truly SAVAGE CABBAGE (don't laugh. It's an improvement on_ fucking ducks_ ... as in Mighty Ducks ... as in, wow, that's mighty! As in I'm going to stop now. Cork slang clearly isn't funny without the accent. Fuck me gently with a chainsaw, they sound like tinkers trying to speak French. Imagine the holy mortifying shame if we had a President from Cork ... addressing the UN ... Okay, will DEFINITELY stop rambling, because, clearly, no one has a clue what I'm talking about) ... **Love you ALL**

And last, but definitely not least, my beta TATIANA. Words can not begin to convey my love, admiration and gratitude. As we say in Ireland, you're some girl for one girl. Or,_ tá an-ghrá agam duit _

**

* * *

STOCKHOLM SYNDROME**

**Chapter Thirteen **

_I don't quite know  
How to say how I feel  
Those three words  
Are said too much  
They're not enough  
_ 'Chasing Cars' – Snow Patrol

xoxo

Someone cleared their throat. Something plastic rustled. A door snapped shut. Blair didn't move. She couldn't. A shadow descended upon them. Her 'friend'. She watched him, watched as he lay down a plastic bag, heard the soft tumble of its contents. He reached out towards Chuck–

"DON'T TOUCH HIM!" she screamed, slapping his hands away, covering Chuck with her body, protecting him from everything. Just as he had protected her. "Don't you touch him."

He held a finger to his lips and motioned her aside. Blair stood firm, gripping her sides to stop from shaking, to hold herself together. She expected him to pick her up and throw her aside, but he didn't. He only repeated the gesture, a little more insistently this time. He stooped down, scooped up the plastic bag, and took out a plastic tube of pills with the pharmacist's label scraped off.

In his own little world, Chuck moaned. Or was it a sob? Something dry and limp, it made her think of week-old flowers and roadkill.

Blair stepped aside.

The man did doctor things, checking his temperature, his pulse, feeling his throat for swollen glands, examining the wounds. Blair hoped he felt sick. She hoped he hated himself. She hoped seeing Chuck like this, dying on the dirty polyester carpet, would guilt him into calling the cops.

"It's just an infection. I ain't sayin' it don't look nasty," he said hastily as Blair opened her mouth to argue. "But it's nuthin' life-threatening. Ideally, he needs fluids and some hard-hitting antibiotics, but these'll gotta do for now. Got any water?" She handed him a half-full bottle of Volvic. He shook out two pills, slid his hand under Chuck's neck and pulled him up into a sitting position. His head lolled onto his chest. His eyes, half open, were white. Blair bit her lip.

The man forced the pills into his mouth and held the bottle to his lips. Water flooded down his chin, drenching his shirt, diluting the blood, sweat and tears.

"Hold his nose."

When it was done, the man stood up, rubbing his hands together. "The pills should bring the fever down in a few hours."

"A few hours?" she hissed.

"Look, kid, I'm sorry. I am. But this is all I can do. I'm sorry. I ... I never meant for this to happen, I'm sorry." His voice shook.

He turned to leave. Stone-faced, Blair said, "That doesn't make it okay."

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

Blair estimated it was no later than five o'clock; the sun was fading fast, and a blue wash wafted down. Her friend had come what seemed like hours ago, yet there was no discernable difference in Chuck. She had tried holding him, but he squirmed free every time. He moaned in his sleep, fever-fraught nightmares consuming his mind. "Chuck?" Blair tried to make him hear her, hoping for some sign that he was still buried in there somewhere. "Chuck?"

To her surprise, it seemed for a moment as though her words penetrated the fevered fog when Chuck's head turned towards her and his eyes opened. But any hope that he was improving disappeared as soon as they connected. His normally sparkling eyes were over-bright and unseeing. Fear clouded and controlled their flickering movements, and as Blair reached out to check his temperature, Chuck wrenched away, arching his body and shutting his eyes tight, a hacking cough tearing from his throat.

His fever was escalating, she could tell. His movements became increasingly fraught, more desperate, and he muttered a constant stream of nothings as he took sharp, shuddering breaths. His hands twitched, clenching and unclenching in a disjointed fashion. Every time his knuckles clicked and cracked, a shudder ran up Blair's spine. It was a loathsome habit, and he knew she hated it. It was typical that he could torture her even when unconscious.

She touched his cheek, his forehead, his hand. If she could feel him beneath her fingers, something solid, he was still there.

Wasn't he?

She lay down beside him and took his hand. It was limp, cold. "Are you still there?" she whispered. "If you can hear me, squeeze my hand. Squeeze my hand if you can hear me. Please, squeeze my hand. Just squeeze it. Oh God, please, hear me, Chuck."

He made a little sound, a feather falling to the ground.

Blair rested her head on his chest.

"Please don't leave me."

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

Outside the window, the world was white. A chill crept through the cracks in the old window frame and Blair shivered. The draft was wicked. She had borrowed Chuck's jacket and socks, but the cold penetrated deep into her tired bones. She clutched her knees to her chest, her hands tucked up inside the long sleeves. Blair felt old – but not old enough to make everything okay. She sat inside the snowglobe, wanting her mother.

She stole a sideways glance at Chuck. He was a nasty shade of grey, and shaking. Cold sweat dotted his forehead, but all her attempts to alleviate his spiking temperature were thwarted by inadequate supplies. She needed something cold.

Blair ran her fingers through her own lank hair. What she wouldn't give for a shower, dry shampoo, a scrunchie. It might sound petty, complaining about her hair given the situation, but she _was_ Blair Waldorf. She was allowed be petty. Chuck gave a whimper through chapped lips, and she hushed him again. He jerked away from her touch and her hand flopped to the floor. Blair let her head fall back against the wall. The condensation covering the window had frozen over, obscuring the world. It was still there, only fuzzy and distorted. Unreachable.

Ice.

She stumbled to her feet so fast she felt dizzy. Her feet ached, pins and needles, and she hobbled over to the window. Ice spiderwebbed over the glass, wafer thin. Blair touched it, and her fingertips stuck hard. The cold made her tingle. She scraped at the ice; it was affixed to the pane, and her efforts only melted it. She needed something sharp to crack it.

Blair gazed around the room, willing inspiration to strike.

The ice split easily under the heel of her stiletto. She gathered up all the tiny chips, mashed them together and wrapped them up in an old rag. Her fingers were red and raw, but she had her icepack. A sudden rush of warmth ran through her, from the tips of her toes to the top of her head, filling her with some inexplicable, intangible sustenance.

This was what hope felt like.

"Chuck." Blair took his head, feeling for a pulse. "Chuck. It's going to be okay. You hear me? It's going to be all right. We're going to be all right."

She kept talking, not quite sure if it was for his benefit or her own, and hauled him up into her lap, her hands under his arms. He was heavy; a dead weight. Blair sat Indian-style, his head against her stomach. "This will be cold, but bear with me. It'll be all right."

She smoothed back his hair, holding the makeshift icepack to his forehead, his cheeks, his throat; constantly changing position, sponging away the sweat and melting ice. Chuck frowned intently, tossing his head, trying to avoid the pack. Moaning.

"No. No. Please ... No."

"Sssshhh. Ssshhhh. It's only ice, yes. Yes. Don't move like that, it's only ice." Blair fought against his blind hands. "It's only ice, my love," she cooed while he kicked and writhed. "Hush there. Ssssshhh. It's all right, you're all right. It's me. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

Her hands were soaked and sore, and he cried in her arms, but she could not give up. Waldorfs did not give up.

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

First there was only heat, and then there was cold. He didn't understand. It burned him, and he fought, trying to escape. He said please, but they didn't listen. He couldn't see them. They were holding him down. They said everything would be okay, but they were burning him and holding him down. It burned, but he couldn't see them and he couldn't escape. He thrashed. He was a fish out of water, like Catfood, the goldfish he had had when he was ten. One day, he took Catfood out of the bowl and put Catfood on the counter and sat up on the counter beside Catfood and watched Catfood die. When his father came home and asked why there was a dead fish on his counter, he said Catfood died, and his father asked how, and he said, "I killed him". And now they were killing him, like he killed Catfood, holding him down, burning him. They were going to do it again. He screamed and it ripped at his throat like old scabs. His father said he was weak, screaming was weak, but they were holding his hand, holding him down, burning his neck and chest with their cold, and they were going to do it again. He knew. His father was laughing at him.

"Weak," he said. "Weak."

And Nate led Blair up the stairs and she was all gone, gone like his mother, and it was all his fault. His father's eyes told him it was all his fault. They were holding his hand and they were going to do it again, and it hurt, and it was too hot, and his father would laugh and watch them kill him like he killed Catfood. He was trapped, and it was too hot.

His hands were white. White bandages. He pulled one off. There was a hole in his hand, a red black hole. A spider scuttled out of the hole, a big one, and it slithered up his arm like a snake with eight legs. It was slimy, and he couldn't move to knock it off and it slithered towards him, crawling up his chin, into his mouth, laughing at him with eight blue eyes. He looked into the hole, and there were a million baby spiders.

He screamed, he couldn't help it, he was weak, and the big spider crawled into his mouth, and…

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

"_Chuck!_"

He was on his back, panting and trembling. There was noise – someone screaming. It took him a while to realise that sound came from his own throat. Water ran down his face and neck and into his mouth, light and slick. She was above him, her hands on him. He could see her. She had a halo made of dying sun. He touched her cheek. It was warm and wet. In her eyes, he only saw himself.

He knew her name.

"Blair."

She smiled like an angel, and he relaxed into the blackness, easy because she was his angel, and she would watch over him. It was all so clear now.

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

She woke up surrounded by a blackness so complete it burned her eyes. But there was a steady warmth beside her, a breathing safety blanket, and she wasn't alone. She found his fingers and intertwined them with her own. They were cold, but dry. "Chuck?" she whispered into the night. "Chuck?"

"Sleeping," he grunted.

"I can't." Blair trailed her fingers through his damp hair. "Tell me something."

He exhaled against her ear. "Like what?"

She squirmed, closer. "I don't know. Something nobody else knows."

Chuck sat up, and the cold rushed in between them. Blair grumbled at the loss of connection. There was a dull pat, a palm on carpet. She nestled up beside him, taking the blanket with her. They leaned against the radiator in silence, the heat searing through their thin clothes. There was no moon tonight, but they didn't need one.

"Remember that goldfish you gave me for my fifth birthday?" he asked. His voice was hoarse, but stronger.

"Catfood?" Blair replied, surprised.

"You remember?"

"I spent hours thinking what to get you," she confessed. Her head was on his shoulder. "What do you get the boy who has everything?"

Chuck sniggered. "Apparently a goldfish." Blair punched his arm. Lightly.

"So what about Catfood?"

"I killed him," he said shortly. In hindsight, it seemed like a bad idea.

"You were ten, Chuck." He could imagine her face, her brown eyes rolling. Chuck never liked blue eyes on a girl. He always felt he was being judged. Blair's voice was devoid of judgement. "And it was a fish."

"Aren't you going to ask why?" he asked.

"Because you're Chuck Bass?"

But she said it with a smile, and they both laughed. It filled the darkness and lit up the corners.

"Because I could."

Blair turned her head, squinting, trying to decipher his expression. Chuck did not need darkness to cover him; he had perfected his poker face long before Blair knew the game existed. She rubbed the back of his hand with the pad of her thumb. "That's a lame secret. You killed a fish."

It was slow but subtle, the way the silence turned into a vacuum, pulling all the air out of their lungs and the secrets from their hearts.

And Chuck said, "I killed my mother."

Blair froze. "What?" she exclaimed. "No. That's crazy talk. You didn't. You couldn't have. You were only a baby when she died, Chuck." She felt him shrink beside her, withdraw and retreat into that dark little hole. She tightened her hold on his hand, but he was slipping through her fingers. "Chuck. You didn't."

"Tell that to my father." His voice was devoid of all emotion. Blair felt the darkness press down on her shoulders, just as Chuck felt the truth crack his bones. He always wondered what his life would have been like had she lived. Siblings maybe? A sister? Another son, with blue eyes? He wondered if, he had looked more like his father, would things have been easier. She might have been his mother, but she was his wife first. Chuck stole her away. He killed her, like Catfood. "He's convinced I did."

Blair felt the unsaid words run over her like fresh blood.

_And so am I._

"What about you?"

Chuck drew a great, juddering breath. "She died giving birth to me. If it wasn't for me, she'd still be here. It's that simple."

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard," Blair snapped coldly. "If it wasn't for the iceberg, Leonardo di Caprio would still be alive – but that doesn't mean the iceberg killed him." She gave a little shrug, but couldn't shift the weight. "It just happened."

She reached for him in the dark. "It wasn't your fault."

"And what if it was?" Chuck bit out. "She had a choice– "

"And she chose _you_," Blair said. Again, she reached. "Remember? Your mother chose you."

"You didn't."

"Didn't what?"

"Didn't choose me."

"I ... I– "

Blair reached for him, but lost him in the dark.

"Goodnight, Blair," he muttered.

She pulled his coat tighter about her shoulders, feeling colder all of a sudden, and curled up. Maybe he was only pretending to sleep, maybe he dreamt it, maybe it was meant to be – his arm snaked around her waist, pulling her close. His breath, slow and steady, was soft on her skin, his body warm. Blair shook back her sleeve to hold his hand. They fit, and she was content to just lie there. Forever.

"I never told you my secret," she breathed.

There was no reply this time, and she was all alone in the dark.

"I love you."

* * *

Hope y'all like this here chapter, it's one of my personal favourites, like. Lots of chairy goodness! We're coming close to end, my friends. It's in sight! Unless, of course, you can give me reason to continue ... And, just to say, looking for help on finding the perfect summary for this fic. I've had loads, but none of them seem quite right, if you know what I mean. If anyone can think of any, I shall love thee forever.

Cough, cough – REVIEW

Thanks, Plonksie


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer:** nope. Not mine. Not even a little bit

**Reviews: **you are all epic. EPIC. Here is a poem I wrote two seconds ago declaring my undying devotion to you all: 

_Roses are red,  
I love my bed,  
I watch _Father Ted_ and drink tea.  
And write bad poems.  
(clearly)  
But what is also clear, unlike tea_–  
_(which is kinda brown, depending on the colour of the mug)  
Is how happy you make me  
_

**Warning:** this chapter is a little violent. Proceed with caution

And to TATIANA, my beta. As Kelly Clarkson says, my life would SUCK without you. Or, well, my fics would. They would suck platypus eggs fo'shizzle

**A/N: **was it just me, or did people feel the finale was missing a little bit of Carter love? Yeah? Yeah? I say leave Vanessa in Haiti (and maybe, you know, like organise another hurricane...) and bring back Carter

**

* * *

STOCKHOLM SYNDROME**

**Chapter Fourteen **

_But I will fight for you  
Be sure that I will fight  
Until we're the special two once again  
And we will only need each other  
We'll bleed together  
Our hands will not be taught to hold another's  
Because we're the special two  
_'The Special Two' – Missy Higgins

xoxo

Dan had had just about enough. He was waiting at the gates of St. Jude's for Serena, coffee in hand, when she came walking around the corner – with _him_. Nate had his hand on her back, punting her along like a shopping trolley. Serena could walk by herself. She even said it.

"Nate. I can walk, you know."

Her tone wasn't as impatient as Dan would have liked, but it was a start.

Nate just grinned his pretty boy grin, and Serena rolled her eyes. She spotted him and waved, a smile breaking out over her face. "Dan!" she called. "Hey, Dan!"

Dan smiled back, holding up the coffee. She hurried forward, but Nate caught her hand.

His eyes narrowed. Nate hugged her, whispering something. Serena seemed to deflate. Frowning, she kissed his cheek and walked slowly to the steps where Dan stood.

"Hey," Dan said, concerned. "Are you okay? Did he… He didn't say something, did he? Because – I can– "

Serena shook her head. "It's – it's nothing."

Dan nodded. "Of course. Nothing. Here." He pushed the coffee on her before saying anything else. Anything stupid. "Coffee. For you."

And when she threw him her golden smile, murmuring her thanks, his anger melted away. Until Nate stole her again at free period. And during Chemistry. And then lunch. They sat, too close, looking sad and sighing for the camera phones. He rubbed her back.

"We're just friends," she told Dan when he confronted her, unable to contain himself. "Look. Nate and I, we go way back– "

"I know."

She gave him a hard look. "Sorry," he apologised, running a hand through his hair. "It's just, you're spending a lot of time together – And I know Blair's your best friend, and Chuck's his best friend. I get it. That's cool. But, really, Serena? I'm here, too. For you. Anytime– "

"I know that, Dan, and I appreciate it. I do." She sounded so sincere that it was hard to be mad. "But - don't take this the wrong way, but you're right. I'm Blair's best friend, and Chuck is Nate's, and that puts us together in this. Imagine if it was Vanessa who was missing, and not Blair. I bet you'd be hanging out with Nate."

"I don't know Nate," Dan said shortly. "We have never 'hung out'. Not, like, ever."

Serena sighed, pulling at her hair. "That was hypothetical. I – my point is – Nate just gets it. What I'm going through."

"Make me get it." Dan held his arms open. He was trying to hide his exasperation, but it was leaking through the cracks. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Nate at the door. Looking for them – for Serena. "I'm here, Serena. I'm your boyfriend. I'm your blank canvas. Make me understand."

"Dan, I– " She bit her lip.

"You what?"

"It's hard."

"Too hard for my little Brooklyn brain to comprehend?"

Serena's eyes flashed. "That's not what I said."

"It's what you meant," he retorted, with more venom than intended.

"Look, Dan, I don't have to deal with this right now, okay?" She snapped. "So thanks for the offer. I'll call if I need you."

"Serena!"

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

The board had biked the papers to the apartment. They now lay on the table, still in the envelope. Bart sat opposite, Scotch in hand. There was a Venn diagram across the polished surface, one ring for every time he set the glass down to refill. Lily hadn't even tried to take the bottle. Jack had offered him a pen. A simple biro, with a kangaroo wearing boxing gloves on the side.

How come this kangaroo could fight, but he could not?

"Bart?"

He turned, a slow stuttering movement. It was Eric. Bart liked the boy; he seemed sensible, judicial, generous. There was character evident in those old brown eyes. He nodded to one of the many empty seats at the Bass table. Too many empty seats.

Eric slid into the one beside him. "May I?"

Bart nodded, pouring one finger into a fresh glass. This wasn't about teenage drinking. This was about Chuck. This was all about Chuck. He pushed the Scotch across the table, and Eric accepted it with a coy smile.

The alcohol made him splutter, his eyes watered and his throat burned, but he forced it down.

"Have you ...?" Eric nodded towards the envelope.

"Not yet."

"It'll be worth it."

Bart surveyed the boy with cold blue eyes. "I'll be the judge of that."

"You can't take that attitude, sir, no disrespect. You can't expect Chuck to be a viable substitute for a billion dollar company. He's just a kid."

Bart's hand shook, and the glass hit the table. The rogue Scotch spread out in a great tide of amber. He could only watch as great drops curled over the table's edge, hanging tremulously before splashing onto Lily's carpet. It was an intoxicating sight, drip by drip, a tiny golden waterfall all his own. Perhaps, when he got Charles back, he would build a waterfall of solid gold. Right here in the city. People would stop, happy to watch something so beautiful, and things would slow down. Perhaps time would even start to roll backwards.

Bart would like that, for time to go backwards. Maybe his waterfall would flow backwards.

Eric pushed himself to his feet. He snatched up the papers, lest they come to any harm, but the pool of Scotch had already come to a halt millimetres from the envelope. Eric swallowed. He turned away quickly, throwing the papers onto the couch.

"I'll get a cloth."

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

The darkness was complete, so much so that they could pretend they were somewhere else, suspended in the endless possibilities offered by consummate black. She sat between his legs, resting back against his chest. His arms were linked loosely about her waist, pooling in her lap. There was silence, but it was whole. Full. There were no cracks for nasty things to ooze in. Occasionally a train rattled by, or the radiator hissed, and that was life passing by their perfect bubble.

Where there is nothing, everything is possible.

Then light smashed in and shattered the silence. There were shouts from the next room, a bang as the door smacked off the wall – kicked open by the man, standing silhouetted on the threshold. In his hand–

Chuck wasn't quite sure what happened next, only that he found himself halfway across the room, and then, somehow, on the floor with the man beneath him. His hands going for the gun. His object was simple: Blair.

And he yelled, "RUN! BLAIR!"

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

"Serena!"

Dan caught up with her, grabbing her hand. "C'mon. I'll walk you home. To Nate's. To Timbuktu. Wherever you want to go. I just ..." He inhaled sharply – to be or not to be – and then took the plunge. "You've been spending lots of time with Nate, and I'm jealous." He said this very quickly, as if a rapid delivery might cushion the blow. Like ripping off a bandaid. "And I'm sorry if I'm being petty. I know the circumstances are not cool, but that's… that's just how I feel. And I want you to know. I want to be the one you turn to, even if we didn't make mudpies together."

Serena stared at him for a minute, for the longest minute of Dan's life, and then smiled. It was like the sun had suddenly come out after the blackest night.

"Mudpies?" She asked.

"Oh, the best. With extra worms."

She did that little thing where she swayed, grinning from under her eyelashes. "Wanna go make some now?"

"With extra worms?"

"And beetles."

"I'm so there. So there."

Serena laughed. He pulled her into a hug, stooping for a kiss, and–

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

Blair rocketed for the door.

An arm swung out of nowhere and steamrolled her against the wall. The whole world spun sideways as stars burst in her eyes. She smashed against the wall with a sickening crunching sound. Blair crumpled backwards, but strong arms grabbed her, yanking her upright.

Chuck managed to land a blow on his assailant, and felt bone break beneath his fist. Hot blood squirted everywhere, drenching his face. He spluttered and coughed, spitting and blinking. One hand gripped tight to the gun, and with the other, he punched every inch of the man he could reach.

He split his knuckle on a tooth. Didn't care. Blair was worth the pain. He would kill this fucker, kill him Goddamn dead – get the gun, get the girl, get out. That was the plan. Easy-peasy-mother-lemon-fucking-squeezy. He was Chuck Bass and, this time, he would save her. He would be the dark knight – Her dark knight.

White was so boring, it stained too easily.

A scream punctured his drowning eardrums.

_Blair_–

He had to look.

She was forced up against the door, another man at her back. A hand with dirty nails dragging at her hip, bunching up her dress.

Chuck froze.

It was enough. The advantage surprise had bought him was gone, and suddenly he was beneath his attacker. Blood dripped onto his face, hot and salty, and the man's considerable bulk was steadily squeezing the air out of his lungs. Chuck felt a fist connected with his jaw and he saw stars – saw Blair. That was enough.

He drove his knee upwards, and the man let rip an animalistic howl. They rolled across the floor, grappling and wrestling. Blair was screaming, sobbing. She kicked at her assailant's legs, but she was just a tiny little thing. She was trapped. She needed saving.

He went for the gun.

With an almighty wrench, Chuck tore it free, rolling over – only for the man to twist his wrist so hard and fast he couldn't even scream for the pain. The gun fell from his dead fingers, skated across the floor. The man launched himself after it, but Chuck held tight to his ankle. A kick to the face, the throat. He couldn't breathe. His grip slackened, and the man ripped free, scrabbling to his feet. Chuck followed, grabbing him from behind and dragging them both down. He fought with the reckless determination of a man who doesn't know how to fight.

Doesn't know how to give up.

They sprawled forward, and he was on top. He seized a handful of the man's greasy hair and, lifting his head, brought it crashing down, again and again.

"Don't."

_Smash– _

"Ever."

_Smash–_

"Touch."

_Smash–_

"Her."

_Smash–_

"Ag– "

"If you don't stop right now, I'll gut her like a fucking pig."

The skinny ginger holding Blair pressed something silver to her throat.

"Stand up," he ordered.

Chuck did as he was told. Panting, bleeding, he staggered to his feet. All the pain came crashing down on him, eclipsing the fading adrenaline. His wrist was on fire. Simple standing was a gargantuan effort.

His assailant struggled to his feet, his back to Chuck. The man holding Blair relaxed, just the tiniest bit, at the sight. Blair cried through her hair. Chuck didn't say he was sorry, because he wasn't done yet. He had a plan.

He shifted his centre of gravity, readying himself. A kick to the kidneys would floor his man for sure. Get the gun, get the girl – get even – get out.

Chuck took a breath–

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

And Nate.

"Hey. Serena. Hey ... Dan." He afforded Dan a grin that wasn't quite apologetic enough. "Sorry, man. I'm not interrupting something, am I?"

"Yes. You are," Dan replied bluntly. Serena tugged on his hand, muttering out of the corner of her mouth, _Dan_.

The funny thing was he had pegged Nate for one of the good guys, and often wondered just why the Hell he hung around with Chuck Bass, or all people, but Dan supposed he should have known. Birds of a feather get baked together.

"Sorry, man," said Nate flippantly, not sounding it in the least. "Serena, d'you want to, I dunno, catch a movie or something. Tonight's just – we usually hang out on Wednesdays. You know ... Chuck and I. Obviously, if you have plans or something, that's cool, I mean ... I don't want to be alone."

Dan laughed. He couldn't help it. "You're actually telling me that you, Nate Archibald, have no other friends to spend the night with – besides Se– _my _girlfriend. Somehow, you know, I find that hard to believe. Just a little bit – like. A lot. Like that's totally inconceivable."

On cue, a regular jock strutted by. "S'up Nate. You coming to soccer?"

Dan raised an eyebrow. "Let's go, Serena."

But Serena didn't move. "Dan, I – Nate. I can't leave him alone ... Chuck's his best friend."

"Exactly!" Dan exclaimed. "He's _Chuck's_ best friend – not yours! Not mine! Now, let's go. Mudpies, remember? Extra worms?"

"I'm sorry. I have to go."

She kissed him, extra hard, as a consolation maybe – but no amount of kissing could compensate for her walking away with _him_. Serena turned and waved, but Dan was already walking in the opposite direction. When he looked back, Nate was helping her into a limo.

Nate winked and Dan contemplated how third degree burns would vastly improve his stupid, pretty, richboy face.

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

Blair could only watch. A man, his reeking breath hot on her neck, pinned her bodily to the door. She scratched at the walls, seeking a ledge or anything to brace herself against and push him away – but nothing. She wasn't strong enough, nowhere near it. And now there cold steel pressed hard on her throat. She could feel her pulse thudding by the blade. Her heart beat so hard she thought her chest liable to explode. Her mouth was hot and dry. Her arms and legs, dead as lead.

There was a hand, hooked around the strap of her panties, grating against her hip with sharp nails. Claws. She kicked backwards, stamping on her captor's feet, but she was barefoot, and so her attempts were pitiful. He laughed, hot and sticky.

The second man, a great bear with dark hair and ham-like hands, the one Chuck had been fighting, rose slowly. His face was a mess of shining red and black. He tottered unsteadily.

She saw Chuck prepare himself and something warm filled her belly. Chuck would floor the bastard. Get his gun. Shoot the animal restraining her. They would escape. Everything would be all right.

Chuck's hand hung at a funny angle. Blair felt the sting of fresh tears. The amount of pain she had inflicted upon him, and the amount he had taken readily for her, filled her stomach with hot shame.

He inhaled, ready–

A train thundered by, and he slipped, just a fraction, surprise knocking him off balance – they both tumbled over, Chuck and the huge man in the balaclava.

There was shouting. Cold steel bit her flesh. Blair screamed.

The bear-man was winded, but otherwise unhurt. Amidst the chaos, he grabbed Chuck's wrist and twisted. Chuck let out a howl of pure agony and collapsed to his knees. He staggered, fighting to regain his feet, and Blair's heart was so full she could feel her ribs breaking to accommodate it. It had to be so, because it hurt too much to bear.

The man raised the gun–

"CHUCK!"

Fired one shot. A warning. Shattered the window.

But Chuck did not stay down.

"Sorry, kid." The bear-man did not sound sorry at all. He raised the gun, once again, high above his shoulder–

"CHUCK! NO!"

And brought it smashing down over the back of Chuck's head. He hit the floor, a dead weight.

"_CHUCK!_"

Blair was screaming so loud, so hard, so true, that her throat couldn't take it. She tasted blood in her mouth. Hands pulled at her, wrapping around her, yanking her backwards. The door opened. She could see a room, slightly bigger than their own – a table, screens, an old television ... a bed. Blair kicked and fought. Held tight to the doorframe. The second man brought the gun down over her fingers. They broke, and so did Blair.

* * *

OMFG. She didn't. BITCH.

And now for some blatant and shameless self-promotion – I'm sure we're all traumatised after the finale [do NOT say the d-word] but, never fear, I have started a season 4 fic because I am that sad. And that's it.

Reviews are like chocolate, only they just make my ego fat and that is totally cool.

Thanks, Plonksie


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: **and I am SO SORRY for the delay in posting, it's been a CRAZY few months, but here we are; the boys are back in town

**BETA: **can I get three THOUSAND cheers for my personal superwoman, **_Tatiana_**, who, despite months of abscene, has taken me back! I AM IN LOVE WITH YOU ... in a totally non-creepy way, yeah?

**REVIEWS: **you KNOW I love and cherish and am so, SO thankful and honoured by the kind, generous comments I've received throughout this entire story, they've really encouraged me and inspired me, constantly, to keep writing and to write to the very best of my abilities. In a word, people, thanks

**

* * *

STOCKHOLM SYNDROME**

**Chapter Fifteen**

**...**

_But if you hurt what's mine I'll sure as hell retaliate  
You can freeze me, you can freeze my mind  
Just as long as my babe's safe from harm tonight  
_'Safe From Harm' – Massive Attack

**...**

He woke up before his time. The pain was something unreal. It should have rendered him comatose, this earthquake inside his skull, but an acute sense of lacking propelled him through the fog. Something – _someone_ – was calling him home.

Cold wind slapped his face. His mouth tasted of salt and rust. Chuck couldn't feel his body, but he knew something was missing. That was what woke him; that was the only explanation. Something was missing, something so integral to his existence that his body was pushing him, forcing him on – the bullet-ridden soldier behind enemy lines. Every third second was steeped in a choking blackness. Chuck could feel his limit, his humanity, like a membrane, so close. He was in a womb, only this time, he had no mother to die for him.

But something was missing, and he had to get it back. Then he could curl up and surrender to this blissful blackness. He was a diver on borrowed air. He had to find the spare cylinder – his oxygen – before his lungs collapsed into **a** shredded red mess. Chuck could hear the clock, ticking – down, down, down – inside his head, a pulse pounding in his ears.

His oxygen was missing.

He lay on the floor, sprawled by the window, flat on his stomach. Broken shards of glass everywhere. His fingers star-fished on the carpet; splinters pierced him. He breathed through his nose. If he opened his mouth, he would surely scream from the boiling agony. His wrist was ... _wrong_.

Far away, so close – a scream.

Blair.

If he closed his eyes, he could see her, and the ghost of her lips eclipsed the pain. Pain was only a mental manifestation – the body's warning: hey, man, don't stick your hand in the fire, it'll fuck us up. Chuck opened his mind and a tsunami of Blair came flooding in, so cool and clean. She was morphine. Ecstasy. Utopia.

Love.

She was Blair. Blair was what was missing, gone – separated from him like an amputated limb. And she was screaming beyond the door. As if wood could hold back Chuck Bass.

He stood up–

A heavy boot slammed into the small of his back and slammed him into the ground. He would have cried out, had he the breath. His lungs burned empty and his eyes watered. His chin smacked up off the ground and he tasted blood.

Black boots filled his vision. Cheap black boots, imitation leather at best.

"And where do you think you're going?"

A boot disappeared and came swinging back. Chuck heard himself whimper, felt the blood bubble and pop at the corner of his mouth, kicked out from his depths by imitation leather boots. He curled up, foetal position, protecting himself.

But who was protecting Blair? She had stopped screaming.

She was pleading.

Chuck swallowed blood and pain. His hand started moving and little hissing fires spluttered to life along his nerves. He swallowed again. And he would keep swallowing for Blair. Another kick to the stomach, but without much effort. He was nothing but a toy. A distraction until the real show began.

Blair.

His hand roamed the carpet, inch by inch, searching; creeping like a bloodied spider. Wicked splinters of glass pierced him, again and again, but he didn't care. The adrenalin was kicking in.

The boots stayed closed. They smelled of mud and plastic and wet snow.

The glass cut into his palm as he gripped it, but he was numb. His grasp was slick. Wet liquid trickled, hot, down his wrist. A blood sacrifice.

The shard was four inches long, the biggest he could feel out in the dark. Chuck let out a strangled yell, a gurgling wretch as his body protested, and swung his arm forward, plunging his makeshift dagger through faux-leather and skin and bone until it struck harder things and snapped in his hand.

The man wailed, a trapped animal, and suddenly there were limbs flying everywhere, grunts and groans and screams and then the callous embrace of the December night as Chuck stood by the window, looking down at the still man, lying four stories below, legs and arms tangled like a broken voodoo doll. Snow was already covering him. Mother Nature hiding the ugly, lest the children see.

He had not pushed the man, not directly, but Chuck was no longer a child.

He stooped and picked up the dead man's knife: a pearl-handled straight razor. He held it tightly in his right hand – his wrong hand – but it slithered about, oily with blood. Chuck wiped the handle on his shirt. Spitting on his minced palm, he rubbed off the blood, rubbed on dirt for friction. It hurt like fucking hell, but pain was inconsequential. He could now wield the blade.

Bad. Ass. Motherfucker.

He had a plan.

And in the next room, Blair screamed.

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

Serena left Nate guarding the popcorn and padded down the hallway to the door. She hooked up the chain and took a moment to admire the snow. The wind had picked up and the sky was an opaque white, like a solid fog. The streetlamp, feet from Nate's door, was now an indeterminable orange shimmer in the white sea. Serena shivered at the sight, then pulled Blair's Yale sweater tighter about her slim frame.

"Dan?"

He stood on the step, bobble hat and all, ear flaps pulled down low, positively vibrating from the cold. His nose was blue.

"I was the in the neighbourhood."

Serena stared at her boyfriend, and, for just the smallest second, wondered what their children might look like, and whether Dan would still have such abominable fashion sense when they were sixty-four. She supposed that meant something crazy and significant and it made her brain feel awkward and heavy, like she had just eaten the biggest meal, and she couldn't think of anything to say. So she threw her arms around him instead. They kissed on the top step until Serena couldn't feel her fingers, and then she invited him in for hot chocolate.

"Only if it's as good as Dorota's," Dan said, in all seriousness.

She stole his stupid hat, and he tied the strings under her chin. Their laughter was so loud that Nate came to investigate. "Serena? You've been gone, like, an hour. What's – Oh."

He stood on the sweeping staircase, arms folded, blue eyes hard and unfriendly. His jaw was clenched very tight, and he didn't look a bit like Nate.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded in a cold, flat voice.

"Nate– " Serena began, staring from boy to boy, "Dan just– "

"Called by to check up on _his _girlfriend," Dan interjected.

"Serena's a big girl," Nate continued in the same hostile tones. "She doesn't need a babysitter."

Serena rolled her eyes.

"And you do, apparently. What, is your mansion haunted or something? Too many big, expensive rooms? You get lost?"

"Dan!" She exclaimed, shocked at Dan's tone. Sarcasm was in his nature, but this was uncharacteristically harsh. "What are you doing?"

Nate descended the last few steps. "Exactly. Humphrey, what are you doing?"

"I would think that was obvious, even for someone with your intellectual impairments," Dan sneered scathingly. "Oh, I'm sorry. Were those words too long? Should I be more succinct? Damn! There I go again. Using long, complicated words. Gosh, that's awfully ungrateful of me, this being your house and all– "

Nate and Dan were inches apart.

"You're right," Nate spat. "This is _my_ house, man. And I'd like you to leave."

"Nate! It's the apocalypse out there!"

"Great. He can freeze to death. Now, preferably."

Serena tried to shove in between the two boys, but they left no room for her.

"Gladly. Just let Serena get her stuff, and then _my girlfriend_ and I will leave."

"Serena's staying here."

"I should go," Serena mumbled. She fumbled at the hat, but the knot conspired against her. She felt very hot inside it. "Dan! Let's just go."

"No." Nate reached out and grabbed her. "No. Don't leave on his account."

"Don't stay on his!" Dan said forcefully. "He's just using this whole thing to get close to you."

Serena shook Nate off, but neither boy noticed. She stared at them, circling like a pair of rabid dogs, hackles raised. Dan, she kind of understood his reaction – but Nate? They were just friends, so his attitude was totally inconceivable.

Unless ...

Serena felt like crying. Why was this happening?

"We're _friends_," Nate yelled. "Obviously a concept you have trouble understanding. Probably because you don't have any!"

Dan laughed, nodding. "Yeah. True." He ran a hand through his tousled hair, and Serena felt her breath catch in her throat as all the air was sucked from the room. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Nate's fists clench. The testosterone stank like petrol in a gas station, just begging for a spark.

Serena took a step back.

"And yet, I, the friendless Brooklyn pauper, just had sex on your hall floor. How do you like them apples?"

When they arrived back at the loft, one very bloody cab ride later, she couldn't tell Rufus who threw the first punch. Rufus sighed, retrieved a bag of frozen asparagus from the icebox and, after a moment's pause, switched on the waffle iron.

"Dad," Dan said thickly, still holding the bloody tissue to his nose. "The answer to everything is not waffles, okay."

"And that's where you're wrong, Dan." Rufus winked at Dan and, for some strange reason, this made Serena wish that her own father was still around. Sure, Bart was better than Klaus – and Claus – and she hoped in time they'd get to know each other, but the fact remained that he was someone else's dad. She wanted someone all to herself. "Waffles is merely the question. The answer is yes."

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

The door was unlocked. It swung open, silent as midnight. He saw two men. One, middle-aged, stood by the monitors, wearing a hand-knitted sweater and an expression of extreme horror, torn between duty and conscience. Chuck pressed a finger to his lips. The man did not move.

The second stood by the bed. With one hand, he pointed a gun directly at Blair, securing her to the bed surer than any handcuff; with the other, he unbuckled his belt. Quite calmly, Chuck crossed the three feet between them and thrust the blade deep into the bastard's back.

Ripped it out, and did it again.

There was falling, flailing, yelling – a hot fist to his side, knocking him sideways. He toppled, grabbed for a hand, _take you down with me, asshole_–

The gun exploded.

Chuck was underwater. He couldn't hear, but the world was vibrating. There was screaming but no noise. One hot, wet, ripping sound later, and the white bed sheets crumpled as they slowly bled to red.

Blair.

There was a loud crash, and the gun went flying as the man crumpled, screaming in agony, wheeling about. Chuck felt the hands about his throat before he saw them. He scrabbled but he had no nails, and his blunt fingers slid on by, useless.

Blair was screaming a new scream. Not fear now, but pure agony. Chuck lashed out, but he was just a little boy in the hands of a grown man, and he had no chance. It didn't matter that he was Chuck Bass. It didn't matter that he loved Blair Waldorf, or that he was supposed to save her, to be her dark knight – to prove that he _could _be a dark knight, to her, to his father. To himself. It didn't matter that Nate might have done better. This man didn't care about Nate; he didn't know who Nate was, or that he even existed.

He shoved Chuck backwards with all his might. There was falling, and then a black smack of bone on concrete. Chuck slid down the wall. The membrane had been punctured and he pooled, boneless, on the floor.

He heard Blair screaming as he slid down the endless wall, spiralling down the rabbit hole, and the sound pierced him like a dagger between the ribs.

She was hopeless.

And he was no dark knight.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: **listen to Massive Attack's _Protection _when reading this chapter, I had it on constant repeat whilst writing ... it was emotional. I had to go and get coffee, several times

**BETA: **it's pretty simple, without your help, I would have given up ages ago, so here's to you _**Tatiana**_

**REVIEWS: **Christ on a bendy bus, people, you are the REASON I didn't give up years ago. Thank you, all of you

_kt _–_ odyjha _– _smartin555 _– _Little miss pixie-Alice cullen _– _Acting-Singing-Bella _– _Fancy Piece of Work _– _Riclynshea _– _Jake _– _thepluot _– _itsolgatime _– _Taiyo To Tsuki No Megemi _– _thegoodgossipgirl _– _CharmingWords23 _– _ggloverxx19 _– _svenjen _– _VanillaCokeQueen _– _missTamibass _– _MrsCullen-Bass _– _D _– _annablake _– _LuLuLG _– _Richelia _– _rose _– _HnM skinnys _– _flipped _– _LetMeIn1812 _– _Ray _– _ilikeitrough _– _Ingridmarie _– _ilovecujo1993 _**  
**

**

* * *

STOCKHOLM SYNDROME**

**Chapter Sixteen**

**...**

_And I've leaned on me for years  
Now you can lean on me  
And that's more than love  
That's the way it should be  
Now I can't change the way you feel  
But I can put my arms around you  
And I'll stand in front of you  
I'll take the force of the blow  
_'Protection' – Massive Attack

**... **

When the huge bleeding ogre swung back to her, he tore off his balaclava and let it flop to the floor. Blair stared at the little puddle of black and knew that, along with his mask, the man had discarded the entire escapade. He now cared nothing for plans or consequences, and Blair realised very quickly that she was in a lot of trouble – and that she was in it alone.

He retrieved the gun, and a metallic click reverberated once around the room, twice inside Blair's chest, as he pulled back the safety.

The man slapped her ankle, and Blair whimpered as pain jolted up her leg.

"Hurts, huh?"

Blair did not move.

"Any funny business, girly, and I'm gonna put another in your kneecap." He spat blood, and his weight caused the mattress to sag. "Don't say I didn't warn ya."

Ignoring the near-blinding pain in her leg, she scrambled backwards up the bed. When her back hit the wall and she could go no further, she kicked with her good leg. Had she been wearing her stilettos, real damage might have been done, but the man only grabbed her ankle and pinned it down with a sickening ease. His broad face was split into a wide smile as he crawled up her body. She felt his wet breath on her chest and bile rose, hard and acidic, in her mouth.

Her hands scrambled blindly, scratching at his face, but he only swatted her sideways, laughing. Blair's entire upper body was thrown to the left and her arm crashed against the nightstand. She curled her fingers around the edge – screaming, kicking, writhing, pleading, holding on for dear life – but he yanked her back down onto the bed with ease. Her hand skated back over the nightstand, and she felt ...

Blair lunged. In one smooth movement, she snatched up the Bic and, howling like a wild thing, thrust it with everything she had into the man's eye socket. The man flung his head back, emitting a squeaky, guttural shriek as he pulled at the makeshift weapon. The gun went flying. Blood and other things not worth thinking about splattered across Blair's face. She could not scream, though. She was all screamed out. She could only watch with cool eyes as the man thrashed and writhed in the throes of agony, hands clamped over his ruined eye. He keeled backwards off the bed and thudded to the floor, rolling and wailing, and she felt nothing.

Her jaw clamped shut to keep back the vomit as she wiped her face on a dirty pillowcase. Inch by inch, she dragged herself across the bed. The pain was something awful, but she had the motivation to push past it. If she could get her hands on the gun, then everything would be over. She would force her so-called friend to call an ambulance, at gun point if necessary. If any more men came through the door, she would shoot them, no fucking hesitation. She had to get that gun. She would shoot the fuckers dead, and she would save Chuck.

It lay on the carpet at her friend's feet. "Please," Blair gasped, her injured leg an anchor, threatening to drag her down into the bottomless black ocean gathering at the corners of her vision. She shook herself hard, but it only made her feel dizzy. "Please. The gun. Kick it to me. Please."

The man made no move to help her, nor did he take the weapon for himself. He just stood there, a human statue, staring around at the scene unfolding before his eyes, as though it were an iMax experience and not real life.

She passed Chuck. His breathing, so faint, was like tiny scraps of sandpaper.

Blair crawled faster, heaving her leg behind her. Three feet to go. Her breath came in short, slick cuts, but she forced herself on. Waldorfs did not give up.

Two and a half feet. Her arms sagged under her weight and her body felt as though it were made entirely of lead instead of flesh and bone. It was so hard.

"Please. The ... gun. Ple– ... please."

Her friend stared down at her.

"Please. Any ... thing. We'll give ... you anything. Just ... the gun. Or ... call an ... ambulance. Please."

He pulled out a cell phone, and Blair collapsed on the floor, unable to cry or scream or even think. She was spent.

Cold, hard footsteps snapped close by. The scratch of a lock; the cringe of an old door being forced open. The air froze solid as a fourth man stepped across the threshold. There was the smallest sound, so soft she might have dreamt it, the whispering whoosh of something frail and feathered taking flight.

_Hope is the thing with feathers – _

Hope had flown away.

Blair felt like she was underwater. Everything was cold. Everywhere was dark. Time flowed by slowly, ebbing with the current. Her ears pounded. Her head was spinning. Her lungs flooded with an icy panic and, when she screamed, there was no sound.

"Well, well, well," he cooed in a lilting Belfast lullaby. He stooped, setting the cardboard tray of coffee on the ground with tender care. "And sure what do we have ourselves here?"

She did not even try to run.

Blair screamed, pain and fear indistinguishable, as hard fingers rooted in her hair. He twisted a great fistful, yanking so hard she thought her scalp would rip clean off. Flipped onto her back, she kicked and fought, shrieking and writhing. But she was a dying swan, a fish flapping on the harbour stones, waiting for the gulls. Each tiny movement sent waves of white hot agony crashing down on her, the next one beating her senseless as she struggled to recover from the last. Her head burned as he dragged her by the hair, and her leg throbbed like something huge was slowly devouring her. Surely, she would soon pass out, and it would be over. Surely.

She was in the air, then on the bed. The duvet was still damp from blood – _her_ blood.

"Well," he said cheerfully, "we won't be needing that now, will we?"

He crushed her friend's cellphone under the heel of his boot, snapped it clean in two.

He stood at the foot of the bed. His hair was neat. Tipping forwards on his hands and knees, he crawled to her, crawled on top of her, inching slowly. She swiped at him, drunk with desperation, and he parried the blow with ease, catching her wrist and pinning it above her head with iron fingers.

"Shh," he breathed. "Now don't be hasty. Let's be taking this slow." Hands slid up her thighs, slipping down, forcing open her legs. "Get to know each other, like." Hands–

"_Stop!_"

"Stop!" Her friend held the gun. "Get off her, animal! She's just a little girl, get off her, or I'll **fucking** shoot you, so help me God." He had two hands wrapped around the handle and his arms shook like saplings in a storm, but he held the gun and held his ground. "Get off her. Now."

But the man only laughed. Quick as an eel, he pulled a handgun from his belt and fired a single shot.

Blair jammed her eyes shut but the blinding flash of the bullet, the rush of blood, the last gasp and the thud of the corpse, they all seared through her eyelids like the brightest sun, and she couldn't erase them. Her chest heaved with dry sobs and her throat cracked. She shook her head, lips pressed together, the last tears spilling from her raw eyes. She shook her head and kept shaking it; like a wind-up doll, she would keep going until her time ran out. She did not say please, however.

"Don't ... Don't do this. You don't have ... to do this."

He leant in close and his voice dripped down her neck like cold sweat. "Oh, I know I don't _have_ to. But I _want_ to."

A hand gripped her chin like a vice, so violently her jaw cracked. There was a weight pressing against her chest, the hotness of a moist breath slithered against her neck. With one hand, the man stroked her cheek. The other tore her panties.

"Open yehr wee eyes," he said as he caressed her. "Or I cut your fuckin' eyelids off."

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

–BANG

–

Click

Click ... Click ... Click

Chuck's finger kept on pumping the trigger even though the magazine was empty, and those little metallic clicks shot holes in the night, tearing through the velvet silence long after the echoes of the bullets died away.

Click ... Click ... Click

Like a heartbeat, they held the air together.

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

Blair opened her eyes and the world went red. Hot wetness drenched her face–

BANG–

Drenched her chest and stomach and legs, until she was swimming in it, and through the red blackness she saw the body above her buck as each bullet – thirteen bullets – slammed into it. She saw holes open in the flesh and blood geyser out, saw his eyes widen in shock, saw them blaze blue like gas flames, then fade to mute glass. Pupils huge and black. Tiny red cracks seeping across the milky white.

She watched him die.

He died, and then collapsed on her, and she saw**…**

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

"Chuck."

"Blair," he said. "Blair."

She sat up and fell down and cried a high, keening wail like a banshee, and the wind whistled in through the broken window, swirling around those jagged holes in their souls like something old and sad and alone.

"Blair," he said again.

Chuck dropped the gun, flung it against the wall, but his finger kept clicking. He wasn't sure if he was dreaming. He was vaguely aware he was walking, like he watching himself back on video, or from some little control center, high up in an ivory tower. He could feel nothing and everything; there was no pain and his veins strained, fit to burst, pumping and pumping. Was this adrenalin?

Survival instinct?

He was Chuck Bass, and he did not survive. He lived, lived large and fast and hard. But there would be no living, not without Blair, only surviving.

"Blair," he whispered, and dragged, rolled, fought the body – not at all lightened by the loss of liquid – off her, straining past the pain into a new blue ocean. He had to keep moving now; he was the marathon runner, who train-wrecked past the finish line and then kept running, because he knew. "Blair."

He knew that if he stopped, so would everything else.

Chuck stripped the corpse of its shirt – he wouldn't be needing it – and bound it, merciless, around the hole in Blair. Pressure on the wound, that's what they did in the movies, and tendrils of dark brown soon stole through the blue denim. The thought scared him; there was a hole in Blair. `

"Blair." He lifted a hand to brush the hair from her face, clear her eyes, but everything was red. Chuck went to the little bathroom and came back with a wet towel. He cleaned her, as best he could, his very best, and he hoped to God it was good enough because it was all he had left.

"Blair."

Chuck eased her arms through the anorak lying over the back of chair – it was cold outside, but she took his arm with a tiny hand. "Chuck. I can't wear that."

So he wore it instead, and she wore his dinner jacket.

"It won't keep you warm," he said, his voice calm and rational and concerned. "Blair, it's snowing outside. A dinner jacket isn't enough."

Her hand cupped his cheek. "Silly," she said, too softly. "I have you. I'll be fine."

"Blair," he moaned. Her eyes were distant and misty, and her touch clammy. There was too much blood, but how much was hers? How much? "Blair."

Chuck wormed his arms beneath her, one under the crease of her knees, the other at the small of her back. There was something wrong with his wrist, but he locked it tight in the back of his mind and kept running.

"Chuck," she murmured, and her voice rattled.

"Yes, Blair."

She gave him a too-wide smile with her vacant eyes, and he saw her, thirteen years old, and drunk for the first time on Peppermint Schnapps. She scrabbled at his collar, pulling him down to whisper in his ear.

"You saved me ... _Bass_man."

She giggled, and it was a squelchy sound that made his skin crawl.

"Kiss me," she ordered. "I want you to kiss me. I want you to."

Chuck pressed his lips to her brow with a fierceness that burned.

"Here." His voice was gruff and thick. "Put your arms around my neck. I'm going to carry you."

Blair slung her arms, cold like silk ribbons and not strong, young arms, around her neck, and he lifted. She gave a whimper, an almost-there sound, and it tore something inside him.

"Don't let go on me, Blair," he wept. "Promise me. Blair. I love you, Blair. You can't leave me."

"I won't let go, Jack," she laughed. "I won't let go."

Tears, silent and strong, streamed down his face. At what, or for whom, he didn't know, but the dam had burst and the water flooded freely.

"Chuck," she whispered, her voice like a feather against his neck. She was beyond white. "It will be alright."

And she looked up at him with wide brown eyes, so dark against her face, and he saw the little girl she kept bottled inside. Like a little girl, she was so certain, so adamant; she believed in her words. In him.

That only made it worse.

"I know," Chuck said. "But I'm still scared."

"I'm not scared. I'm with you."

She leaned her head against his heart and he carried her, like Rhett carried Scarlett, he carried her away. Outside the broken window, the sun began to rise, and it was a new day.


End file.
